MARIE  TARNOWSKA 


MARIE    MCOLAEVNA    TAKNOWSKA 


MARIE    TARNOWSKA 

By    A.    VIVANTI    CHARTRES 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  LETTER 
BY  PROFESSOR  L.  M.  BOSSI  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  GENOA    .... 


t«««Ws9S^^ 


5V»V>^«i«* 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  CENTURY  CO. 
NEW  YORK        ....        MCMXV 


Copyright,   1915,  by 
The  CENTtJKY  Co. 


Published,  October,  1915 
All  rights  reserved 


UURARY 
UiMVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BAHBARA 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

On  the  morning  of  September  3rd,  1907,  Count 
Paul  Kamarowsky,  a  wealthy  Russian  nobleman, 
was  fatally  shot  in  his  apartments  on  the  Lido  in 
Venice  by  an  intimate  friend,  Nicolas  Naumoff, 
son  of  the  governor  of  Orel.  The  crime  was  at 
first  believed  to  be  political.  The  wounded  man 
refused  to  make  any  statement  against  his  assail- 
ant, whom  he  himself  had  assisted  to  escape  from 
the  balcony  to  a  gondola  in  waiting  below. 

Count  Kamarowsky  was  taken  to  a  hospital,  and 
for  three  days  his  recovery  seemed  assured;  but 
the  chief  surgeon,  in  a  sudden  mental  collapse — 
he  has  since  died  in  an  insane  asylum — ordered 
the  stitches  to  be  removed  from  the  fast-healing 
wounds,  and  Count  Kamarowsky  died  in  gi*eat 
agony  a  few  hours  later.  His  last  words  were  a 
message  of  love  to  his  betrothed  at  Kieff,  a  beau- 
tiful Russian  woman,  Countess  Marie  Tamowska. 

In  her  favor  Count  Kamarowsky  had,  shortly 
before  his  death,  made  a  will  and  also  insured  his 
life  for  the  sum  of  £20,000. 

A  number  of  telegrams  from  this  lady  were 


vi  PREFATOEY  NOTE 

found  addressed  to  a  Russian  lawyer,  Donat 
Prilukoff,  who  had  been  staying  at  the  Hotel 
Danieli  in  Venice  until  the  day  of  the  murder. 
Both  this  man  and  the  Countess  Tamowska  were 
arrested. 

After  a  sensational  trial  they  were  found  guilty 
of  instigating  the  young  Nicolas  Naumoff  to 
commit  the  murder.  Countess  Tarnowska  was 
sentenced  to  eight  years'  imprisonment  in  the 
penitentiary  of  Trani;  Prilukoff  was  condemned 
to  ten  years '  penal  servitude ;  while  Naumoff  him- 
self was  liberated  in  view  of  his  having  undergone 
two  years'  incarceration  while  awaiting  his  trial. 


TO  THE  AUTHOR 

Signora: 

Not  only  as  the  medical  expert  for  the  defense  at 
the  trial  of  the  Countess  Tarnowska,  hut  as  one 
who  has  made  it  his  life-work  to  investigate  the 
relation  in  women  betiveen  criminal  impulse  and 
morbid  physical  condition,  I  cannot  hut  feel  the 
keenest  interest  in  this  hook,  in  which  you  set  forth 
the  problem  of  wide  human  interest  presented  by 
the  case  of  the  prisoner  of  Trani. 

When  first  I  suggested  to  you  that  you  should 
write  this  book — which  (apart  from  its  interest  as 
dealing  ivith  a  cause  celebre  whose  protagonists 
are  still  living  and  well  known  in  European  soci- 
ety) might  bring  into  wider  knowledge  doctrines 
that  modern  physiologists  and  psychologists  are 
endeavoring  to  diffuse — you  reminded  me  that  the 
medical  elements  of  the  problem  could  not  in  such 
a  work  be  discussed  or  even  clearly  stated.  This, 
of  course,  is  true,  and  the  significance  of  certain 
indications  scattered  through  these  pages  will 
doubtless  be  lost  upon  those  who  are  not  familiar 
with  such  matters.    Nevertheless,  it  was  important 

Yii 


viii  TO  THE  AUTHOR 

that  the  hook  should  he  written,  for  if  after  her 
release  and  appropriate  medical  treatment  the 
Countess  Tarnowska  is  restored,  as  many  of  us 
confidently  anticipate,  to  the  complete  sanity  of 
moral  well-being,  your  book  in  the  light  of  that  es- 
sential fact  will  have  fulfilled  a  notable  mission. 

It  will  have  helped  to  bring  home  to  the  general 
consciousness  the  knowledge,  hitherto  confined  to 
the  scientific  few,  that  moral  obliquity  in  women  is 
in  most  cases  due  to  pathological  causes  compara- 
tively easy  of  diagnosis  and  of  cure;  that  a  woman- 
criminal  may  be  morally  redeemed  by  being 
physically  healed;  and  that  just  as  alcoholism, 
typhus,  pyemia  or  other  modes  of  toxic  infection 
may  result  in  delirium  and  irresponsibility,  so  cer- 
tain forms  of  disease  in  women,  by  setting  up  a 
condition  of  persistent  organic  poisoning,  may  and 
very  often  do  conduce  to  mental  and  moral  aber- 
ration and  consequent  crime. 

Your  book,  Signora,  contains  a  truthful  exposi- 
tion of  a  group  of  psychic  values  with  which  phy- 
sicians and  psychopathists  are  concerned,  and  I 
believe  that  eventually  it  will  promote  the  realiza- 
tion that  even  in  the  darkest  regions  of  m.oral 
degradation  it  is  possible  for  science  to  raise  the 
torch  of  hope.  Thus,  though  appealing  for  the 
moment  to  the  interest  of  the  general  reader,  it  will 


TO  THE  AUTHOR 


IX 


ultimately  constitute  a  significant  document  in  the 
history/  of  the  evolution  of  pathological  science. 


Genoa, 

January  12th,  1915. 


TO  THE  READER 

This  book  is  not  written  to  plead  Marie  Tar- 
nowska's  cause.  The  strange  Kussian  woman 
whose  hand  slew  no  man,  but  whose  beauty  drove 
those  who  loved  her  to  commit  murder  for  her 
sake,  will  soon  have  ended  her  eight  years'  captiv- 
ity and  will  come  forth  into  the  world  once  more. 

I  have  not  sought  in  any  way  to  minimize  her 
gTiilt,  or  attenuate  her  responsibility  for  the  sin 
and  death  that  followed  in  her  train.  Though  she 
must  be  held  blameless  for  the  boy  Peter  Tar- 
nowsky's  tragic  fate  and  even  for  Dr.  Stahl's  sui- 
cide, yet  Bozevsky's  death,  Naumoff's  downfall 
and  the  murder  of  Count  Kamarowsky  will  for- 
ever be  laid  at  her  door. 

I  have  tried  to  convey  to  the  cool,  sober  mind 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  reader — to  whom  much  of  this 
amazing  story  of  passion  and  crime  may  appear 
almost  incredible — that  sequence  of  tragic  events 
which  brought  Marie  Nicolaevna  to  her  ruin. 

Weighted  by  a  heritage  of  disease  (her  mother 
was  a  neurasthenic  invalid  and  two  of  her  aunts 
are  even  now  confined  in  an  insane  asylum  in 

s 


TO  THE  EEADER  xi 

Russia) ,  she  was  married  when  still  on  the  thresh- 
old of  girlhood  and  swept  into  the  maelstrom  of  a 
wild  life — a  frenzied,  almost  hallucinated,  exist- 
ence such  as  is  led  by  a  certain  section  of  the 
Russian  aristocracy,  whom  self-indulgence  drives 
to  depths  of  degeneracy  hardly  to  be  realized  by 
the  outside  world. 

With  the  birth  of  her  child,  Tania,  Marie  Tar- 
nowska's  fragile  health  broke  down  completely, 
and  the  few  years  preceding  the  tragedy  which  led 
to  her  arrest  were  spent  traveling  through  Europe 
in  a  feverish  quest  of  health  or  at  least  of  oblivion 
of  her  sufferings.  According  to  such  medical  au- 
thorities as  Eedlich,  Fenomenof,  Rhein,  Bossi,  and 
many  other  eminent  gynecologists  and  alienists, 
she  is,  and  has  been  for  some  years  past,  suffering 
from  a  slow  form  of  blood  poisoning  which  affects 
the  nervous  centers  and  the  brain,  and  which — as 
I  myself  had  a  painful  opportunity  of  witnessing 
when  I  saw  her  in  prison — causes  periodic  cata- 
leptic seizures  that  imperil  her  life. 

It  was  by  one  of  her  medical  advisers.  Professor 
Luigi  Bossi,  of  the  University  of  Genoa,  that  the 
idea  of  this  book  was  first  given  to  me. 

'*I  was  called  as  an  expert  for  the  defense  at 
the  Venice  trial,"  said  the  Professor,  "and  I  was 
grieved  and  indignant  at  the  hea\'y  sentence  in- 


xii  TO  THE  READER 

flicted  upon  this  unhappy  woman.  Marie  Tar- 
nowska  is  not  delinquent,  but  diseased;  not  a 
criminal,  but  an  invalid ;  and  her  case,  like  that  of 
many  other  female  transgressors,  is  one  for  the 
surgeon's  skill  and  the  physician's  compassionate 
care,  not  for  the  ruthless  hand  of  the  law.  In- 
deed," the  illustrious  Professor  continued,  "it  is 
becoming  more  and  more  a  recognized  fact  that 
many  cases  of  criminality  in  woman  have  a  physi- 
cal, not  a  moral  origin.  By  her  very  mission — 
maternity — woman  is  consecrated  to  pain;  and 
whereas  by  nature  she  is  a  creature  of  gentleness 
and  goodness,  the  effect  of  physical  suffering,  of 
ailments  often  unconfessed — nay,  often  unrealized 
by  herself — is  to  transform  her  into  a  virago,  a 
hypochondriac,  or  a  criminal.  Then  our  duty  is 
to  cure  her,  not  to  punish  her. 

*'It  may  be  merely  a  question,"  he  explained, 
**of  a  slight  surgical  intervention;  sometimes  even 
brief  medical  treatment  is  sufficient  to  save  a 
woman's  life  and  reason.  The  wider  knowledge 
of  this  simple  scientific  fact  in  the  social  life  of  our 
time  would  redeem  and  rehabilitate  thousands  of 
unfortunate  women  who  people  the  prisons  and 
the  madhouses  of  the  world. 

**As  for  the  unhappy  Countess  Tamowska," 
added  Professor  Bossi,  "the  Venetian  tribunal  re- 


TO  THE  EEADER  xiii 

fused  to  regard  her  as  a  suffering  human  being, 
but  flung  her  out  of  society  like  some  venomous 
reptile.  Eead  these  notes  that  she  wrote  in 
prison,"  he  said,  placing  in  my  hand  a  book  of 
almost  illegible  memoranda.  ''If  they  touch  your 
heart,  then  do  a  deed  of  justice  and  generosity. 
Go  to  the  penitentiary  of  Trani,  see  the  prisoner 
yourself,  and  give  her  story  to  the  World.  So  will 
you  perform  an  act  of  humanity  and  beneficence 
by  helping  to  diffuse  a  scientific  truth  in  favor, 
not  of  this  one  woman  alone,  but  of  all  women. ' ' 

After  glancing  through  the  strange  human  docu- 
ment he  had  given  me  I  decided  to  do  what  he 
asked;  for,  indeed,  from  those  poor,  incoherent 
pages  there  seemed  to  rise  the  eternal  cry  of  suf- 
fering womanhood — the  anguished  cry  of  those 
that  perpetuate  the  gift  of  life — which  no  sister- 
soul  can  hear  unmoved. 

Thus  it  was  that  my  mind  was  first  directed  to 
the  theme  of  this  book  and  that  I  undertook  the 
task — fraught  with  almost  insuperable  difficulties 
— of  breaking  down  official  prohibitions  and  reach- 
ing the  Russian  captive  in  her  distant  Italian 
prison. 

And  now  that  I  have  been  brought  face  to  face 
with  that  strange  and  mournful  figure,  now  that 
I  have  heard  her  story  from  her  own  pale  lips,  I 


xiv  TO  THE  READER 

am  moved  by  the  puissant  impulse  of  art,  which 
takes  no  heed  of  learned  theory  or  ethical  code, 
to  narrate  in  these  pages  the  profound  impression 
made  upon  me  by  that  tragic  personality,  by  the 
story  of  that  broken  life. 

I  have  endeavored  to  do  so  with  faithfulness, 
exaggerating  nothing,  coloring  nothing,  extenuat- 
ing nothing.  It  will  be  for  the  pontiffs  of  science 
and  morals  to  achieve  the  more  complex  task  of 
drawing  conclusions  and  establishing  theories  that 
may  one  day  diminish  injustice  and  suffering  in 
the  world. 

A.  VivANTi  Chabtres. 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  page 
MARIE  NicoLAEVNA  TARNOWSKA     .        Frontispiece 

A   PAGE   FROM   MARIE  TARNOWSKA's  NOTE-BOOK      .            .  6 

COUNT  O'ROURKE 20 

COUNT  PAUL  KAMAROWSKY 180 

I   STEPPED  OUT  UPON   THE   BALCONY         ....  194 

UNDER  ARREST 268 

IN  THE  PRISON  CELL 292 

THE   PENITENTIARY    AT   TRANI 300 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA 


Ed  or,  che  Dio  mi  tolga  la  memoria. 

CoNTESSA  Lara. 

The  verdant  landscape  of  Tuscany  s^\aing  past 
the  train  that  carried  me  southward.  The  looped 
vineyards — like  slim,  green  dancers  holding  hands 
— fled  backwards  as  we  passed,  and  the  rays  of 
the  March  sun  pursued  us,  beating  hotly  through 
the  open  windows  on  the  dusty  red  velvet  cushions 
of  the  carriage. 

Soon  the  train  was  throbbing  and  panting  out 
of  Pisa,  and  the  barefooted  children  of  the  Roman 
Campagna  stood  to  gaze  after  us,  with  eyes  soft 
and  wild  under  their  sullen  hair. 

Since  leaving  the  station  of  Genoa  I  had  seen 
nothing  of  the  fleeting  springtide  landscape;  my 
gaze  and  thoughts  were  riveted  on  the  pages  of 
a  copy-book  which  lay  open  on  my  knee — a 
simple  school  copy-book  with  innocent  blue-lined 

3 


4  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

sheets  originally  intended  to  contain  the  carefully 
labored  scrawls  of  some  childish  hand.  A  blue 
ornamental  flourish  decked  the  front;  and  under 
the  printed  title,  "Program  of  Lessons,"  the 
words  ** History,"  "Geography,"  "Arithmetic," 
were  followed  by  a  series  of  blank  spaces  for  the 
hours  to  be  filled  in.  Alas,  for  the  tragic  pupil  to 
whom  this  book  belonged,  in  what  school  of  hor- 
ror had  she  learned  the  lesson  traced  on  these 
pages  by  her  slim,  white  hand — the  fair  patrician 
hand  which  had  known  the  weight  of  many  jewels, 
the  thrill  of  many  caresses,  and  was  now  held  fast 
in  the  merciless  grip  of  captivity. 

I  turned  the  page :  before  me  lay  a  flow  of  pale 
penciled  w^ords  in  a  sloping  handwriting.  At 
every  turn  the  flourish  of  some  strange  seignorial 
name  met  my  eye :  long  Russian  names  of  prince, 
of  lover  or  of  murderer.  On  every  page  was  the 
convulsion  of  death  or  the  paroxysm  of  passion; 
wine  and  morphia,  chloral  and  cocaine  surged 
across  the  pallid  sheets,  like  the  wash  of  a  night- 
mare sea. 

From  the  midst  of  those  turbid  billows — like 
some  ineffable  modern  Aphrodite — rose  the  pale 
figure  of  Marie  Nicolaevna  Tarnowska. 

The  first  words — traced  by  her  trembling  hand 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  5 

in  the  prison  at  Venice — are  almost  childish  in 
their  simplicity. 

''When  I  was  eight  years  old,  I  fell  ill  with 
measles  and  almost  lost  my  eyesight.  I  wore  blue 
spectacles.  I  was  very  happy.  My  mother  loved 
me  very  much ;  so  did  my  father.  So  did  the  serv- 
ants.    Everybody  loved  me  very  much." 

I  pause  in  my  reading,  loth  to  proceed,  I  wish 
I  could  stop  here  with  the  little  girl  whom  every 
one  loved  and  who  gazed  out  through  her  blue 
spectacles  at  a  rose-colored  world. 

Ah!  Marie  Nicolaevna,  had  your  luminous  eyes 
remained  for  all  time  hidden  behind  those  dim 
blue  glasses,  no  one  to-day  would  raise  his  voice 
in  execration  of  you,  nor  call  anathema  upon  your 
fair  bowed  head. 

But  w^hen  the  little  Russian  countess  was  twelve 
years  old  an  oculist  from  Kieff  ordered  that  her 
eyes  should  be  uncovered,  and  "Mura,"  as  her 
parents  fondly  called  her,  looked  out  upon  the 
world  with  those  clear  light  eyes  that  were  one 
day  to  penetrate  the  darkest  depths  of  crime. 

I  continue  to  read  without  stopping.  The  ser- 
ried pages,  scrawled  feverishly  and  hurriedly  in 
the  cells  of  La  Giudecca  in  defiance  of  prison  rules, 
are  in  thin  handwriting,  with  names  and  dates 
harshly   underlined;   but   here   and   there   whole 


6  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

sentences  are  struck  out,  as  if  the  writer's  mem- 
ory wavered,  or  her  feehngs  altered  as  she 
wrote. 

Immediately,  on  the  very  first  page,  the  bold 
figure  of  young  Vassili  Tarnowsky  confronts  us: 
the  radiant,  temerarious  lover,  who  came  to  woo 
her  in  her  marveling  adolescence. 

''His  voice  thrilled  the  heart  like  the  tones  of 
a  violoncello ;  in  his  eyes  were  the  lights  of  heaven, 
in  his  smile  all  the  promises  of  love.  I  was  al- 
ready seventeen  years  old,  and  wise  beyond  my 
years.  But,  sagacious  as  I  thought  myself,  I  could 
never  believe  anything  that  was  told  me  against 
Vassili.  My  eyes  saw  nothing  but  his  beauty.  On 
the  twelfth  day  of  April  I  ran  away  from  home 
with  him;  and  we  were  married  in  a  little  church 
far  away  on  the  desolate  steppes.  I  never  thought 
that  life  could  hold  such  joy." 

But  on  the  very  next  page  we  come  face  to  face 
with  the  astounding  list  of  Vassili 's  perfidies:  a 
musical  enumeration  of  feminine  names  which 
rings  the  knell  of  his  child- wife's  happiness.  "I 
never  thought,"  writes  Marie  Tarnowska  simply, 
''that  life  could  hold  such  sorrow." 

Further  on  there  are  gaps  and  incoherences; 
here  and  there  a  passing  efflorescence  of  literary 
phrase,  or  a  sudden  lapse  into  curt  narrative,  as 


+ 


V-    -      ■;^      y44<e!t->'      j»»    III'      l(iil|''MiF.f 


A    PAGE    FROM    MARIE    TARNOWSKA'S    NOTE-BOOK 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  7 

if  a  wave  of  apatliy  had  suddenly  submerged  the 
tragic  heroine  and  left  in  her  place  only  a  passive 
narrator  of  fearful  events.  Now  and  then  even 
a  note  of  strident  humor  is  struck,  more  poignant, 
more  painful  than  pathos. 

Ever  and  anon  there  appears  throughout  the 
funereal  story — as  if  smiling  out  through  the  win- 
dow of  a  charnel-house — the  innocent  face  of  a 
child :  Tioka.  He  is  all  bright  curls  and  laughter. 
Unaware  of  the  carnage  that  surrounds  him,  he 
runs  with  light,  quick  feet  through  pools  of  blood 
to  nestle  in  the  gentle  maternal  breast  which  for 
him  is  all  purity  and  tenderness. 


As  I  read  on  and  on  the  writing  trembles  and 
wavers,  as  if  the  hand  and  the  heart  of  the  writer 
wearied  of  their  task.  With  a  sudden  break  the 
sad  story  closes,  unfinished,  incomplete. 

''If  I  could  tell  of  the  tears  I  have  shed,  if  I 
could  describe  the  anguish  I  have  suffered,  I  am 
sure  that  pity  would  be  shown  to  me.  Surely  if 
the  world  knew  of  my  torment  and  my  suffer- 
ings— " 

Nothing  more.  Thus  abruptly  the  tragic  manu- 
script ends. 

The   train   slackens    speed,   falters,    shivers — 


8  IMAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

stops.  I  am  at  Trani;  at  the  furthermost  end  of 
Italy;  almost  beyond  civilization;  almost  out  of 
the  world. 

Soon  I  shall  see  before  me  the  woman  I  have 
come  so  far  to  seek:  the  woman  who  never  gave 
the  gift  of  love  without  the  gift  of  death. 

The  high  white  walls  of  the  penitentiary  glared 
down  in  the  blazing  southern  sun.  The  languid 
Adriatic  trailed  its  blue  silken  waters  past  the 
barred  windows.  I  raised  the  heavy  knocker;  it 
fell  from  my  hand  ^viih.  a  reverberating  clang, 
and  the  massive  prison-door  opened  slowly  before 
me. 

The  Mother  Superior  and  two  gentle-looking 
Sisters  fluttered — black  and  white  and  timid  as 
swallows — across  the  sunlit  courtyard.  They 
were  expecting  me. 

^ '  She  whom  you  seek  is  in  the  chapel, ' '  said  the 
Mother  Superior,  in  a  low  voice.  '*I  will  call 
her!"  She  left  us.  The  two  Sisters  accom- 
panied me  up  a  broad  stone  staircase  to  a  small 
waiting-room.  Then  they  stood  quietly  beside 
me ;  and  when  I  looked  at  them,  they  smiled. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  I  could  hear 
women's  voices  singing  in  the  prison  chapel,  sim- 
ple, untutored  voices,  clear  and  shriU: 


]\IAEIE  TARNOWSKA  9 

"Kyrie  eleison 
Christe  eleison  .  .  ." 

and  the  low  notes  of  the  organ  rolled  beneath  the 
treble  voices,  full  and  deep; 

"Mater  purissima 
Mater  inviolata  .  .  ." 

''Number  315 — that  is  the  Countess  Marie," 
said  one  of  the  two  Sisters,  "plays  the  organ  for 
the  other  prisoners.  She  plays  every  day  at  noon 
and  evensong." 

''And  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  added 
the  other  Sister. 

(How  far,  how  far  away,  Marie  Nicolaevna,  are 
the  passionate  days  of  Moscow,  the  glowing,  un- 
slept  nights  of  Venice!) 

"Rosa  mystica 
Stella  matutina  ,  .  ." 

Suddenly  the  music  ceased  and  we  stood  waiting 
in  the  hot,  white  silence.  Then  the  door  opened, 
and  on  the  threshold  stood  Marie  Tarnowska — 
the  murderess,  the  devastating  spirit,  the  Erinnys, 


n 

Tall  and  motionless  in  lier  fearful  striped  dress 
she  stood,  gazing  at  me  with  proud  clear  eyes; 
her  brow  was  calm  and  imperious  under  the  hu- 
miliating prisoner's  coif,  and  her  long  hands — 
those  delicate  hands  whose  caresses  have  driven 
men  to  commit  murder  for  her  sake — hung  loosely 
at  her  side.  Her  mouth,  curving  and  disdainful, 
trembled  slightly. 

"Signora,"  I  began.  Her  lips  wavered  into  a 
faint  smile  as  with  a  quick  downward  sweep  of  her 
eyelashes  she  indicated  her  dress  of  shame. 

''Signora,"  I  repeated,  "I  have  come  here 
neither  out  of  compassion  nor  curiosity." 

She  was  silent,  waiting  for  me  to  proceed.  The 
three  nuns  had  seated  themselves  quietly  near  the 
wall,  with  eyes  cast  down  and  meek  hands  folded 
in  their  laps. 

*'I  have  come,"  I  continued,  ''to  vindicate  my 
sisters  in  your  eyes.  I  know  you  think  that  all 
women  are  ruthless  and  unkind." 

Another  smile,  fleeting,  vivid  and  intelligent,  lit 

10 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  11 

up  lier  eyes.  Then  the  narrow  face  closed  and 
darkened  again. 

''For  two  years,"  I  proceeded,  ''I  have  been 
haunted  by  the  thought  that  you,  shut  in  this 
place,  must  be  saying  to  yourself  that  all  men  are 
base  and  all  women  pitiless.  As  to  the  men — I 
cannot  say.  But  I  wish  you  to  know  that  not  all 
women  are  without  pity. ' ' 

She  was  silent  a  few  moments.  Then  in  a  weak 
voice  she  spoke: 

' '  In  the  name  of  how  many  women  do  you  bring 
this  message  to  me?" 

I  smiled  in  my  turn.  *' There  are  four  of  us," 
I  said,  cheerfully.  "Two  Englishwomen,  a  Nor- 
wegian, who  is  deaf  and  dumb — and  myself.  The 
deaf  and  dumb  one,"  I  added,  "is  really  very  in- 
telligent. ' ' 

Marie  Tarnowska  laughed !  It  was  a  low,  sud- 
den trill  of  laughter,  and  she  herself  seemed 
startled  at  the  unaccustomed  sound.  The  Sisters 
turned  to  look  at  her  with  an  air  of  gentle  amaze- 
ment. 

But  in  my  eyes  Marie  Tarnowska  had  ceased  to 
be  the  murderess,  the  Erinnys.  Through  the 
criminal  in  her  dress  of  shame  I  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  little  girl  in  the  blue  spectacles,  the 
happy  little  girl  who  felt  that  every  one  loved  her. 


12  :marie  tarnowska 

That  lonely,  tremulous  trill  of  laughter  astray  on 
the  tragic  lips  stirred  me  to  the  depths ;  and  sud- 
den tears  filled  my  eyes. 

Marie  Tarnowska  saw  this,  and  turned  pale. 
Then  she  sat  down,  unconsciously  assuming  the 
same  chastened  attitude  as  the  Sisters,  her  hands 
submissively  folded,  her  dark  lashes  cast  down 
over  her  long  light  eyes.  For  some  time  there 
was  silence. 

"I  have  read  your  notes,"  I  said  at  last. 

'  *  My  notes  1  I  do  not  remember  writing  them. ' ' 
Suddenly  her  voice  sounded  harsh  and  her  glance 
flashed  at  me  keen  as  a  blade  of  steel. 

''You  wrote  them  in  the  prison  at  Venice,  in 
pencil,  in  a  child's  exercise  book." 

"It  may  be  so."  Marie  Tarnowska  breathed 
a  long  sigh.  "That  was  a  time  of  dreams,"  she 
said,  raising  her  stricken  eyes  to  mine.  "I  some- 
times dream  that  this  is  all  a  dream.  I  think  I 
must  have  fallen  asleep  one  day  when  I  was  a 
little  child,  at  home  in  Otrada — perhaps  in  our 
garden  on  the  swing.  I  used  often  to  fall  asleep 
on  that  creaky  old  swing,  reading  a  book,  or  look- 
ing at  the  sky.  Perhaps  I  shall  wake  up  soon, 
and  find  that  none  of  all  these  dreadful  things  are 
true."  She  fingered  the  broad  brown-and-white 
stripes  of  her  prison-garb  and  gazed  round  the 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  13 

dreary  room.  Then  her  eyes  strayed  from  the 
whitewashed  walls,  bare  except  for  a  large  ebony 
crucifix,  to  the  narrow  iron-barred  window,  and 
back  to  the  Sisters  sitting  along  the  wall  like  a 
triptych  of  Renunciation,  with  folded  hands  and 
lips  moving  silently  in  their  habitual  prayer. 
"Yes,  I  shall  wake  up  soon  and  find  myself  in  our 
old  garden  again.  My  mother  will  come  down 
the  path  and  across  the  lawn,  with  her  little  white 
shawl  on  her  head;  she  will  call  me:  'Mura! 
Mura!  Where  are  you?  Come,  child,  it  is  time 
for  tea;  and  Vassili  is  asking  for  you.'  Then  I 
shall  jump  from  the  swing  and  run  to  her  and 
hide  my  face  on  her  breast.  '  Mother,  if  you  knew 
what  a  dream  I  have  had — a  terrible  dream,  all 
about  deaths  and  murders !  I  thought  I  had  mar- 
ried Vassili,  and  he  was  unldnd  to  me — as  if  Vas- 
sili could  be  unkind ! — and  I  was  locked  in  a  prison 
in  Italy — imagine,  mother,  to  be  imprisoned  in 
Italy,  where  people  only  go  for  their  honeymoon!' 
And  mother  will  kiss  me  and  laugh  at  the  crazy 
dream  as  we  go  across  the  lawn  together,  happily, 
arm  in  arm." 

I  found  no  word  to  say,  though  her  eyes  seemed 
to  question  me ;  and  her  fragile  voice  spoke  again : 
''Surely,  this  cannot  all  be  true?  It  cannot  be 
true  that  they  are  all  dead.     My  mother?    And 


14  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

little  Peter?  And  Bozevsky?  And  Stalil?  And 
Kamarowsky?  Why,  it  is  like — like  'Hamlet.'  " 
She  broke  into  strident  laughter.  ''Do  you  re- 
member how  they  all  die  in  'Hamlet"?  One  here, 
one  there,  one  in  the  stream,  one  behind  the  cur- 
tain, drowned,  stabbed,  strangled — "  Suddenly 
she  was  silent,  looking  straight  before  her  with 
startled  eyes. 

' '  Poor  Mura ! "  I  murmured,  and  lightly  touched 
her  hand. 

At  the  sound  of  the  tender  Eussian  appellative 
she  turned  to  me  quickly.  Then  she  began  speak- 
ing under  her  breath  in  hurried  whispers. 

"Who  told  you  my  name?  Who  are  you?  Are 
you  my  sister  Olga?  Do  you  remember  the 
merry-go-round  at  the  school-feast  in  Kieff  ?  How 
we  cried  when  it  swung  us  round  and  round  and 
round  and  would  not  stop?  I  seem  to  be  still  on 
the  merry-go-round,  rushing  along,  hastening, 
hurrying  with  the  loud  music  pealing  in  my  head. ' ' 

The  Mother  Superior  rose  and  approached  her. 
"Hush,"  she  spoke  in  soothing  tones.  "You  will 
soon  be  quiet  and  at  rest." 

But  Marie  Tarnowska  paid  no  heed.  Her  eyes 
were  still  fixed  on  mine  with  a  despairing  gaze. 
' '  Wake  me,  wake  me ! "  she  cried.  ' '  And  let  me 
tell  you  my  dream." 


MAEIE  TAKNOWSKA  15 

And  during  those  long  mild  April  days  she  told 
it  to  me  as  follows. 

Where  shall  I  begin?  Wait,  let  me  think — ah, 
yes !  Where  I  fell  asleep  that  day  in  the  garden, 
on  the  swing.  I  remember  it  was  a  hot  day  even 
in  Otrada;  almost  as  hot  as  it  is  here.  And  it 
was  my  birthday;  I  was  sixteen  years  old.  My 
mother  herself,  with  great  solemnity,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  my  father  and  sisters,  had  twisted  up  my 
long  curling  hair  and  pinned  it  in  great  waves  and 
coils  on  the  top  of  my  head.  There  were  to  be  no 
more  long  plaits  hanging  down  my  back ! 

''Your  childhood  is  over,  Mura,"  said  my 
mother.  "At  sixteen  one  has  to  look  and  behave 
like  a  grown-up  young  lady." 

''That  is  exactly  what  I  am,  mother  dear,"  I  re- 
plied with  great  self-assurance. 

My  mother  smiled  and  sighed  and  kissed  me. 
' '  You  are  such  a  child — such  a  child  still,  my  little 
snowdrop,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  were  tender 
and  anxious. 

But  I  ran  gaily  out  into  the  garden,  feeling  very 
proud  of  my  red-gold  helmet  of  curls.  I  sprang 
fearlessly  on  the  swing,  tossing  my  head  from  side 
to  side,  delighted  to  feel  the  back  of  my  neck  cool 
and  uncovered  to  the  breeze.  What  would  Vas- 
sili  say  to  see  me  like  this!    But  soon  the  hair- 


16  MARIE  TARN0WSE:A 

pins  felt  heavy;  they  pulled  a  hair  or  two  here, 
and  a  hair  or  two  there,  and  hurt  me.  I  stopped 
the  swing,  and  with  my  head  bent  forward  I 
quickly  drew  all  the  hairpins  out  and  threw  them 
on  the  ground. 

The  heavj^  coils  of  hair  loosened,  untwisted  like 
a  glittering  snake,  and  fell  all  about  me  like  a  cloak 
of  gold.  I  leaped  upon  the  swing  again  and, 
standing,  swung  myself  in  wide  flights  through 
the  clear  air.  What  joy  it  was!  As  I  flew  for- 
ward my  hair  streamed  out  behind  me  like  a  flag, 
and  in  the  backward  sweep  it  floated  all  about  my 
head  in  a  whirling  canopy  of  light. 

I  laughed  and  sang  out  loud  to  myself.  How  de- 
lightful was  the  world !  How  blissful  to  be  alive 
and  in  the  sunshine ! 

Suddenly  Vassili  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  path 
with  my  cousin.  Prince  Troubetzkoi.  They  were 
coming  towards  me  arm  in  arm,  smoking  ciga- 
rettes and  gazing  at  me.  I  felt  shy  of  my  loosened 
hair;  I  should  have  liked  to  jump  do^\^l  and  run 
away,  but  the  swing  was  flying  too  high  and  I  could 
not  stop  it. 

The  two  men  looked  at  me  with  strange  intent 
eyes,  as  no  one  had  ever  looked  at  me  before.  I 
felt  a  hot  blush  rise  to  my  cheeks  like  a  flame. 
Obeying  a  sudden,  overmastering  impulse  I  let  go 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  17 

the  ropes  and  covered  my  face  with  my  hands. 
I  heard  a  cry — did  it  come  from  me  1 — then  every- 
thing whirled  round  me.  .  .  .  For  an  instant  I  saw 
the  gravel  path  rise  straight  in  front  of  me  as  if 
to  strike  me  on  the  forehead.  I  threw  myself 
back,  something  seemed  to  crash  into  the  nape  of 
my  neck — and  I  remember  no  more. 


Ill 

I  SEE  the  ensuing  days  as  through  a  vague  blue 
mist.  I  see  myself  reclining  in  an  armchair,  and 
my  mother  sitting  beside  me  with  her  crochet- 
work.  She  is  crocheting  something  of  yellow 
wool.  It  is  strange  how  the  sight  of  that  yeUow 
wool  hurts  and  repels  me,  but  I  cannot  find  words 
in  which  to  express  it,  I  seem  unable  to  speak; 
and  mother  crochets  on  calmly,  with  quick  white 
hands.  I  am  conscious  of  a  dull  pain  in  the  nape 
of  my  neck.  Then  I  see  Vassili  come  in;  he  is 
carrying  an  enormous  cage  in  his  hand;  and  Olga 
follows  him,  laughing  and  radiant.  ' '  Here  he  is ! 
here  he  is!"  cries  Vassili  triumphantly,  putting 
the  cage  down  beside  me ;  and  in  it,  to  my  horror, 
I  see  a  parrot,  a  huge  gray  and  scarlet  creature, 
twisting  a  hard  black  tongue  round  and  round  as 
he  clambers  about  the  cage.  I  cry  out  in  terror: 
' '  Why — why  do  they  bring  me  things  that  frighten 
me?"  And  I  burst  into  tears.  Every  one  gazes 
at  me  in  amazement;  my  mother  bends  tenderly 
over  me:  "But,  my  own  darling,  yesterday  you 
said  you  wanted  to  have  a  parrot.  Vassili  has 
been  all  the  way  to  Moscow  to  buy  it  for  you. ' ' 

18 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  19 

*'No,  no!  it  is  not  true!  I  never  said  I  wanted 
a  parrot !  Take  it  away !  It  frightens  me.  And 
so  does  the  yellow  wool."  I  hear  myself  weeping 
loudly ;  then  everything  is  blotted  out  and  vanishes 
— parrot,  Vassili,  yellow  wool,  Olga — nothing  re- 
mains but  my  mother's  sad  and  anxious  face  bend- 
ing above  me,  dim  and  constant  as  the  light  of  a 
lamp  in  a  shadowy  chapel. 

When  I  was  able  to  come  down  to  breakfast  for 
the  first  time,  my  father  stood  waiting  for  me, 
straight  and  solemn  at  the  foot  of  the  great  stair- 
case. He  gave  me  his  arm  with  much  ceremony 
and  led  me  to  my  place,  where  flowers  lay  in  fra- 
grant heaps  round  my  plate.  Every  one  embraced 
and  complimented  me  and  I  was  very  happy. 

''I  feel  as  if  I  were  a  princess!"  I  cried,  clap- 
ping my  hands;  and  they  all  laughed  except  my 
father,  who  answered  gravely: 

"  If  it  is  your  wish,  you  may  become  one.  Prince 
Ivan  has  asked  for  your  hand." 

''Ivan?  Ivan  Troubetzkoi?"  All  the  gladness 
went  out  of  my  heart. 

"Yes.  And  so  has  Katerinowitch,"  exclaimed 
Olga,  with  a  bitter  smile;  and  I  noticed  that  she 
looked  pale  and  sad. 

''Both  Ivan  and  Katerinowitch?    How  extraor- 


20  MARIE  TAENOWSKA 

dinary!"  Then  glancing  at  my  mother,  whose 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  plate,  I  added  jestingly, 
''Is  that  all?    No  one  else?" 

My  pleasantry  fell  flat,  for  no  one  answered,  and 
I  saw  my  father  knitting  his  brows.  But  my 
mother  lifted  her  eyes  for  an  instant  and  looked 
at  me.  In  the  blue  light  of  that  dear  gaze  I  read 
my  happiness ! 

But  Olga  was  speaking.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
''there  is  some  one  else.  Vassili  Tamowsky  has 
asked  to  marry  you."  And  she  added,  with  a 
touch  of  bitterness:  "I  wonder  what  has  pos- 
sessed all  three  of  them ! ' ' 

Vassili!  Vassili!  Vassili!  The  name  rang 
like  a  clarion  in  my  ears.  I  should  be  Vassili 's 
wife!  I  should  be  the  Countess  Tarnowska — the 
happiest  woman  in  all  this  happy  world.  Every 
other  girl  on  earth — poor  luckless  girls  who  could 
not  marry  Vassili — would  envy  me.  On  his  arm 
I  should  pass  proudly  and  serenely  through  life, 
rejoicing  in  his  beauty,  protected  by  his  strength. 
Sheltered  on  his  breast  the  storms  would  pass  over 
my  head,  nor  could  sorrow  ever  touch  me. 

"I  trust  that  your  choice  will  fall  on  Trou- 
betzkoi,"  said  my  father. 

"Or  on  Vassili,"  cried  Olga  quickly. 

I  jumped  up  and  embraced  her.    "It  shall  not 


COUNT    O'ROURKE 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  21 

be  Kate rino witch,  that  I  promise,"  I  whispered, 
kissing-  the  little  pink  ear  that  nestled  under  her 
fair  curls.     "He  is  to  be  for  you!" 

Time  was  to  fulfil  this  prophecy. 

As  I  went  round  the  table,  and  passed  my  mother 
— poor  little  nervous  mother ! — I  laid  my  hand  on 
her  arm.  I  noticed  that  she  was  trembling  all 
over.  Then  I  summoned  up  courage  and  ap- 
proached my  father. 

"Father,  dear,  if  you  want  your  little  Mura  to 
be  happy,  you  must  let  her  marry  Vassili." 

"Never,"  cried  my  father,  striking  the  table 
with  his  fist.  The  soul  of  the  ancient  O'Rourke — 
a  demoniacal  Irish  ancestor  of  ours  whose  mem- 
ory always  struck  terror  to  our  souls — ^had  awak- 
ened in  him.  I  saw  Olga  and  my  mother  turn 
pale.  Nevertheless  I  laughed  and  kissed  him 
again.  "If  I  do  not  marry  Vassili,  I  shall  die! 
And  please,  father,  do  not  be  the  Terrible 
0  'Rourke,  for  you  are  frightening  mother ! ' ' 

But  papa,  dominated  by  the  atavistic  influence 
of  the  O'Rourke,  grew  even  more  terrible;  and 
mother  was  greatly  frightened.  She  sat  white  and 
rigid,  with  scarcely  fluttering  breath ;  suddenly  in 
her  transparent  eyes  the  pupils  floated  upward 
like  tw^o  misty  pale-blue  half -moons;  she  was  in 
the  throes  of  one  of  her  dreaded  epileptic  seizures. 


22  I^IAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

Then  they  were  all  around  her,  helping  her, 
loosening  her  dress,  fanning  her;  while  I  stood 
aside  trembling  and  woebegone,  and  the  pains  in 
the  nape  of  my  neck  racked  me  anew. 

I  said  to  myself  that  my  father  was  hard  and 
wicked,  that  I  should  marry  Vassili  and  carry 
mother  off  with  me,  ever  so  far  away ! 

As  for  papa,  he  should  only  be  allowed  to  see  us 
once  a  year.    At  Christmas. 

•  ••••••• 

I  have  married  Vassili. 

I  pretended  to  be  seized  with  such  convulsions 
that  my  poor  dear  mother,  being  at  her  wits'  end, 
at  last  allow^ed  me  to  run  away  with  him. 

Do  I  say  ''I  pretended"!  I  am  not  sure  that 
that  is  correct.  At  first  the  convulsions  were  cer- 
tainly a  mere  pretense.  I  would  say  to  myself: 
' '  Now  I  shall  make  myself  have  convulsions. ' '  But 
as  soon  as  I  had  begun  I  could  not  stop.  After  I 
had  voluntarily  gnashed  my  teeth  they  seemed  to 
become  locked  as  in  a  vice;  my  fists  that  I  had 
purposely  clenched  would  not  reopen.  My  nails 
dug  into  the  palms  of  my  hands,  and  I  could  see 
the  blood  flowing  down  my  wrists  without  being 
able  to  unclasp  or  relax  my  fingers. 

Doctor  Orlof,  summoned  in  haste  from  Kieff, 
shook  his  head  gravely. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  23 

''There  are  indications  of  epilepsy,  due  to  the 
fall  from  the  swing. ' ' 

"No,  no,  no!"  I  cried.  ''Not  the  swing!  It  is 
because  of  Vassili!" 

My  mother  trembled  and  wept. 

How  cruel  we  are  in  our  childhood!  How  we 
torture  the  mothers  that  adore  us,  even  though 
we  love  them  with  all  our  hearts.  And  oh!  the 
tragedy  of  not  understanding  this  until  it  is  too 
late,  when  we  can  never,  never  ask  for  their  for- 
giveness, nor  console  them  or  atone  to  them 
again. 

I  married  Vassili, 

My  father,  more  the  Terrible  O'Rourke  than 
ever,  at  once  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
me.  He  denied  me  his  kiss  and  his  forgiveness. 
I  was  very  unhappy. 

"Oh,  don't  bother  your  head  about  that  tire- 
some old  man, ' '  said  Vassili,  much  annoyed  by  my 
tears. 

As  for  my  mother,  she  could  only  entreat  Vas- 
sili to  be  kind  and  gentle  with  me. 

"Take  care  of  her,  Vassili,"  she  implored.  "I 
have  given  her  to  you  lest  she  should  die  of  a 
broken  heart:  but  she  is  really  too  young  to  be 
any  one 's  wife — she  is  but  a  child !    I  do  not  know 


24  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

whether  you  understand  me.  Remember  she  is 
not  yet  a  woman.     She  is  a  child. ' ' 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  said  Vassili,  without  paying 
much  attention.  ' '  That  's  all  right.  I  shall  tweak 
her  nose  if  she  is  naughty. ' ' 

"And  if  I  am  good  I"  I  asked,  lifting  ecstatic 
eyes  to  his  handsome  nonchalant  face. 

"If  you  are  good  you  shall  have  sweets  and 
kisses!"  and  he  laughed,  showing  all  his  white 
teeth. 

"Promise  me,  Vassili,  that  you  will  always  sing 
my  favorite  song:  'Oh  distant  steppes,  oh  savage 
plains,'  to  me,  and  to  no  one  else." 

"To  you  and  to  no  one  else,"  said  Vassili  with 
mock  solemnity.  "Come  then,  Marie  Tarnow- 
ska ! ' '  and  he  drew  my  arm  under  his,  patting  my 
hand  on  which  the  new  nuptial  ring  shone  in  all 
its  brightness. 

''Marie  Tarnowska!"  What  a  beautiful  name! 
I  could  have  wished  the  whole  world  to  know  that 
name;  I  could  have  wished  that  every  one  seeing 
me  should  say:  "Behold,  behold  Marie  Tarnow- 
ska,  happiest  and  most  blessed  among  women." 


IV 

Ok  my  wedding  night,  in  the  hotel  at  Kharkoff, 
I  summoned  the  chambermaid.  She  knocked  and 
entered.  She  was  a  pert,  pretty  creature,  and 
after  surveying  me  from  head  to  foot  she  threw 
a  rapid  glance  at  Vassili.  He  was  seated  in  an 
armchair,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

'^What  is  your  name?"  he  asked  the  girl. 

''Eosalia,  at  your  service,  sir,"  she  replied. 

'  '■  Very  good,  Rosalia, ' '  said  my  husband.  ' '  This 
evening  we  shall  do  without  you.  Possibly  in  a 
day  or  two  I  may  wish  to  see  you  again. ' ' 

The  girl  laughed,  made  a  slight  curtsey,  and 
went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

''But  who  is  going  to  do  my  hair?"  I  asked, 
feeling  very  much  out  of  countenance  and  shy  at 
remaining  alone  with  him. 

''Never  mind  about  your  hair,"  said  Vassili. 
' '  Don 't  be  so  tedious.  You  're  a  little  bore. ' '  And 
he  kissed  me. 

Then  he  sat  down  and  smoked  his  cigarette, 
watching  me  out  of  narrowed  eyelids  as  I  wan- 
dered about  the  room  in  great  trepidation  and  em- 
barrassment.   I  was  about  to  kneel  down  by  the 

25 


26  MAKIE  TAEXOWSKA 

bedside  to  say  my  prayers,  wlien  he  suddenly 
grasped  my  wrist  and  held  it  tightly. 

' '  What  are  you  doing  now  ? "  he  inquired. 

*'I  am  going  to  say  my  prayers,"  I  replied. 

"Don't  bother  about  your  prayers,"  he  said. 
*'Tiy  not  to  be  such  an  awful  little  bore.  Keally 
you  are  quite  insufferable. ' ' 

But  I  would  not  have  missed  my  prayers  for 
the  world.  At  home  prayers  had  always  been  a 
matter  of  great  importance.  Olga  and  I  used  to 
say  them  aloud  in  unison  morning  and  evening. 
And  now  that  Olga  was  far  away  I  must  say  them 
alone.  I  buried  my  face  in  my  hands  and  said 
them  devoutly,  with  all  my  heart. 

They  were,  I  admit,  numerous  and  long;  and 
they  were  in  many  languages,  for  every  nurse  or 
governess  that  came  to  us  in  Otrada  had  taught 
us  new  ones ;  and  Olga  and  I  were  afraid  to  leave 
any  out,  lest  God  should  be  oft'ended ;  we  were  also 
rather  doubtful  as  to  which  language  He  under- 
stood the  best. 

I  had  just  come  to  an  English  prayer — 

Xow  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 

I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  keep. 

If  I  should  die  before  I  wake  .  .  . 

(Here  Olga  and  I  used  always  to  interpolate  a 
short  prayer  of  our  own  invention :     ' '  Please,  dear 


MAKIE  TARNOWSKA  27 

God,  do  not  on  any  account  let  us  die  to-night. 
Amen.") — when  Vassili  interrupted  me. 

''Haven't  you  finished?"  he  cried,  putting  his 
arm  round  my  neck.  ''You  are  very  tiresome. 
You  bore  me  to  extinction." 

"You  bore  me!"  That  was  the  perpetual  re- 
frain of  all  his  days.  I  always  bored  him.  Per- 
haps it  was  not  surprising.  At  seventeen  one  is 
not  always  clever  and  entertaining,  especially  out- 
side the  family  circle.  At  home  I  had  always  been 
considered  rather  witty  and  intelligent,  but  to 
Vassili  I  was  never  anything  but  "a  dreadful 
bore." 

When  I  caught  sight  of  him  pinching  Rosalia's 
cheek  and  I  burst  into  tears:  "You  are  a  fearful 
bore,"  he  said  crossly.  If  I  noticed  the  scent  of 
musk  or  patchouli  on  his  coat  and  ventured  to 
question  him  about  it — "You  are  an  insufferable 
little  bore,"  would  be  all  the  answer  I  got.  When 
he  went  out  (taking  the  music  of  "My  Savage 
Plains"  with  him)  and  stayed  away  all  night,  on 
his  return  next  morning  I  sobbed  out  my  anguish 
on  his  breast.  ' '  I  must  say  you  bore  me  to  death, ' ' 
he  yawned. 

And  one  day  I  heard  that  he  had  had  a  child  by 
a  German  baroness. 

At  the  sight  of  my  paroxysm  of  despair  he  grew 


28  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

angry.  ''What  does  it  matter  to  you,  silly 
creature,  since  you  have  not  got  one  yourself?" 
he  exclaimed.  "Wearisome  little  bore  that  you 
are;  you  can't  even  have  a  child." 

I  was  aghast.  What — what  did  he  mean! 
Why  could  I  not—? 

"No !  no !"  he  shouted,  with  his  handsome  mouth 
rounded  and  open  like  those  of  the  stone  cherubs 
on  the  walls  of  his  castle,  "you  will  never  have 
any  children.  You  are  not  a  woman.  Your 
mother  herself  said  so."  And  the  look  which  he 
flashed  across  my  frail  body  cut  me  like  a  sword. 

I  fell  fainting  to  the  ground. 

Then  he  became  alarmed.  He  called  everybody. 
He  summoned  the  whole  staff  of  the  hotel.  He 
sent  for  all  the  ladies  he  knew  in  Kharkoff  (and 
they  were  many)  imploring  them  all  to  save  me, 
to  recall  me  to  life.  When  I  came  to  myself  the 
room  was  filled  with  women:  there  was  Rosaha, 
and  two  Hungarian  girls  from  the  adjoining 
apartment,  and  there  was  also  the  German 
baroness,  and  little  Julia  Terlezkaja,  the  latest  and 
fairest  of  my  husband's  conquests.  All  these 
graceful  creatures  were  bending  over  my  couch, 
while  Vassili  on  his  knees  with  his  head  buried 
in  the  coverlet  was  sobbing:  "Save  her!  She  is 
dead !    I  have  killed  her ! ' ' 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  29 

I  put  out  my  hand  and  touched  his  hair. 

''I  am  alive,"  I  said  softly;  and  he  threw  him- 
self upon  me  and  kissed  me.  The  women  stood 
round  us  in  a  semi-circle,  gay  and  graceful  as  the 
figures  on  a  Gobelin  tapestry. 

'^I  love  you,"  Vassili  was  exclaiming;  *'I  love 
you  just  as  you  are.  I  should  hate  you  to  be  like 
everybody  else."  And  in  French  he  added,  look- 
ing at  Madame  Terlezkaja:  *'C'est  tres  rigolo 
d 'avoir  une  femme  qui  n'est  pas  une  femme." 

I  hid  my  face  in  the  pillow,  and  wept;  while 
the  fair  Terlezkaja,  who  seemed  to  be  the  kindest 
of  them  all,  bent  over  and  consoled  me. 

'^Pay  no  heed  to  him,"  she  whispered.  "I 
think  he  has  been  drinking  a  little." 

The  door  opened.  A  doctor,  who  had  been  sent 
for  by  the  manager  of  the  hotel,  entered  with  a 
resolute  authoritative  air.  At  the  sight  of  him  the 
Avomen  disappeared  like  a  flight  of  startled  spar- 
row^s.     Of  course  they  took  Vassili  with  them. 

To  the  good  old  doctor  I  confided  the  secret 
which  Vassili  had  disclosed  to  me  and  which  was 
burning  my  heart. 

"I  want  to  have  a  child,  a  little  child  of  my 
own ! "  I  cried. 

"Of  course.  Of  course.  So  you  shall,"  said 
the  old  doctor,  with  a  soothing  smile.     "There  is 


30  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

no  reason  why  you  should  not.  You  are  a  little 
anemic,  that  is  all. ' ' 

He  scribbled  some  prescriptions  on  his  tablets. 

''There.  You  will  take  all  that.  And  you  will 
go  to  Franzensbad.  Within  a  year  you  will  be 
asking  me  to  act  as  godpapa." 

I  took  all  he  prescribed.  But  I  did  not  go  to 
Franzensbad.  Vassili  wanted  to  go  to  Petersburg, 
so,  of  course,  it  was  to  Petersburg  we  went. 

The  very  first  evening  we  were  there  a  number 
of  his  friends  came  to  call  on  him. 

I  remember,  among  the  rest,  a  certain  German 
Grand  Duke,  who,  after  showing  me  an  infinite 
amount  of  attention,  drew  Vassili  aside  and  spoke 
to  him  in  undertones.  I  heard  him  mention  the 
name  of  a  famous  restaurant  and  the  words :  ' '  A 
jolly  supper-party  to-night — some  ravishingly 
pretty  tziganes  ..."  There  followed  names  of 
men  and  women  whom  I  did  not  know,  and  my 
husband  laughed  loudly. 

Then  the  Grand  Duke  turned  to  me,  and  bowing 
deeply  and  ceremoniously  kissed  my  hand. 

For  an  instant  a  frenzied  impulse  came  over 
me  to  clutch  that  well-groomed  head  and  cry: 
"Wicked  man!  Why  are  you  trying  to  lure  my 
husband  from  me?"  But  social  conventions  pre- 
vailed over  this  elementary  instinct,  and  when  the 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  31 

Grand  Duke  raised  his  patrician  head  he  found 
me  all  amiability  and  smiles. 

"She  is  indeed  a  bewitching  creature!"  I 
heard  him  mutter  to  Vassili.  ''Looks  just  like 
one  of  Botticelli's  diaphanous  angels.  Well  then, 
at  eleven  o  'clock  to-night,  at  the  '  Hermitage. '  ' ' 

Promptly  at  a  quarter  to  eleven  Vassili,  sleek, 
trim  and  immaculate,  kissed  my  cheek  gaily  and 
went  out. 

I  was  alone.  Alone  in  the  great  drawing-room, 
gorgeous  with  lights  and  mirrors  and  gilded 
decorations.  What  was  the  good  of  being  a  be- 
witching creature  ?  What  was  the  good  of  looking 
like  one  of  Botticelli's  diaphanous  angels?  .  .  . 


I  BANG  for  my  maid,  Katja,  a  good  creature,  ugly 
beyond  words — and  gladly  chosen  by  me  on  that 
account — and  I  told  her  that  she  was  to  undress 
me  for  I  was  going  to  bed.  While  she  was  unfas- 
tening my  dress  I  could  hear  her  muttering:  "If 
it  were  me,  I  should  not  go  to  bed.  If  it  were  me, 
I  should  put  on  my  diamonds  and  my  scarlet  chif- 
fon gown ;  I  should  take  a  good  bottle  of  vitriol  in 
my  pocket,  and  go  and  see  what  they  were  up  to." 

"Katja,  what  are  you  mumbling?  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  you — that  you  think  I  ought  to  go — ?" 

"Of  course,"  she  cried,  and  her  small  squinting- 
eyes  shot  forth,  to  the  right  and  left,  fierce,  di- 
vergent flashes  of  indignation.  ' '  Why  should  my 
lady  not  go?" 

Why  should  I  not,  indeed?  Had  I  not  the  right 
— nay,  the  duty — to  follow  Vassili?  Had  I  not 
most  solemnly  promised  so  to  do,  in  the  little 
church  on  the  steppes  a  year  ago?  '^ Follow 
him!"  With  what  tremulous  joy  had  I  repeated 
after  the  priest  those  two  words  of  tenacity  and 
submission.  Had  they  no  application  to  the 
Hermitage  restaurant? 

32 


LIARIE  TARNOAYSKA  33 

''Perhaps  I  might  venture  to  go,"  I  murmured, 
"but,  Katja,  do  not  other  women  always  have 
rouge  and  powder  to  put  on  when  they  go  out  ?  I 
have  nothing." 

' '  Nothing  but  your  eighteen  years,  madame, ' '  re- 
phed  Katja. 

She  dressed  me  in  the  low-necked  scarlet  chiffon 
gown.  She  drew  on  my  flame-colored  stockings, 
and  my  crimson  shoes.  On  my  head  she  placed  the 
diamond  and  ruby  tiara,  and  about  my  shoulders 
she  wound  a  red  and  gold  scarf  which  looked  like 
a  snake  of  fire. 

"Alas,  Katja!"  I  sighed  as  I  looked  at  myself 
in  the  mirror;  "what  would  my  mother  say  if  she 
were  to  see  me  like  this  ?    What  do  I  look  like  ? ' ' 

"You  look  like  a  lighted  torch,"  said  Katja. 

I  made  her  come  with  me  in  the  troika,  which 
sped  swiftly  and  silently  through  the  dim  snow- 
covered  streets.  I  was  shaking  with  fear  at  the 
thought  of  Vassili.  Katja  was  mumbling  some 
prayers. 

We  drew  up  at  the  brilliant  entrance  of  the  res- 
taurant. 

"Oh,  heavens,  Katja!  What  will  my  husband 
say?" 

' '  He  will  say  that  you  are  beautiful. ' ' 

How  did  I  ever  venture  across  that  threshold  of 


34  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

dazzling  liglit  ?  How  was  I  able  to  ascend  the  red- 
carpeted  stairs,  preceded  and  followed  by  bows 
and  smiles  and  whispers  ?  At  the  head  of  the  wide 
staircase,  in  front  of  a  double-paneled  door  of 
white  and  gold,  I  paused  with  beating  heart,  al- 
most unable  to  breathe.  I  could  hear  the  gipsy- 
music  inside,  and  women's  voices  and  men's  laugh- 
ter and  the  tinkling  of  glasses. 

An  impassive  head-waiter  stood  before  me, 
calmly  awaiting  my  orders. 

''Tell" — I  stammered — "tell — "  as  I  thought  of 
Vassili  my  courage  failed  me — ' '  tell  his  Highness 
the  Grand  Duke  that  I  wish  to  see  him. ' ' 

Then  I  clung  to  the  balustrade  and  waited.  As 
the  door  opened  and  was  quickly  closed  again, 
there  came  forth  a  puff  of  heat  and  sound  which 
enwrapped  me  like  a  flame. 

Almost  immediately  the  door  opened  again  and 
the  Grand  Duke  appeared  upon  the  threshold,  his 
countenance  still  elated  by  recent  laughter.  He 
stared  at  me  in  astonishment,  without  recognition. 
* '  What — what  can  I  do  for  you  ? "  he  asked.  Then 
his  eyes  widened  in  limitless  astonishment. 
''Upon  my  word!    It  is  the  Botticelli  angel!" 

I  said  "Yes,"  and  felt  inclined  to  weep. 

' '  Come  in,  come  in ! "  he  cried  eagerly,  taking  me 
by  the  arm  and  leading  me  to  the  door. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  35 

A  waiter  threw  it  wide  open.  I  had  a  dazzling 
vision  of  a  table  resplendent  with  crystal,  silver, 
and  flowers,  and  the  bare  jeweled  shoulders  of 
women. 

'  ^  Tarnowsky ! "  called  the  Grand  Duke  from  the 
threshold.  ''Fortunate  among  men!  Behold — 
the  most  glorious  of  your  conquests!" 

Vassili  had  started  to  his  feet  and  was  looking 
at  me  with  amazed  and  incredulous  eyes.  There 
was  a  deep  silence.  I  felt  as  if  I  should  die.  Vas- 
sili came  up  to  me.  He  took  me  brusquely  by  the 
hand,  crushing  my  fingers  in  his  iron  clasp.  "You 
are  mad!"  he  said.  Then  he  looked  at  me  from 
head  to  foot — not  with  the  gaze  of  a  husband,  nor 
yet  with  that  of  a  lover,  but  with  the  cold  curious 
scrutiny  of  the  perfect  connoisseur. 

''Come,"  he  said  at  last,  drawing  me  towards 
the  others  who  were  in  a  riot  of  laughter.  "I 
have  always  told  my  friends  that  you  were  a  chill- 
ing, lily-white  flake  of  snow.  You  are  not ! ' '  And 
he  laughed.  "You  are  a  blazing  little  firebrand! 
Come  in!" 

Thenceforward  my  husband  would  always  have 
me  with  him.  My  untutored  adolescence  was 
trailed  from  revelry  to  revelry,  from  banquet  to 
orgy ;  my  innocence  swept  into  the  maelstrom  of  a 


36  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

licentious  life.  I  was  forced  to  look  into  tlie 
depths  of  every  depravity;  to  my  lips  was  prof- 
fered every  chalice  of  shame. 

Oh,  if  as  I  stood  trembling  on  the  confines  of 
maidenhood,  some  strong  and  tender  hand  had 
drawn  me  into  safety,  should  not  I  have  been  like 
other  women,  those  happy  women  who  walk  with 
lofty  brows  in  the  sunshine,  august  and  ruthless  in 
their  purity? 

But,  alas !  when  with  tardy  and  reluctant  step  I 
issued  forth  from  my  long  childhood,  a  thousand 
cruel  hands  were  thrust  out  to  push  me  towards 
the  abyss. 

Oh,  white  pathway  of  innocence  which  knows  no 
return!  Oh,  tenuous  light  of  purity  which,  once 
quenched,  kindles  no  more !  Did  I  not  grieve  and 
mourn  for  you  when  I  lost  you  before  my  twentieth 
year?  Sadly,  enviously,  like  some  poor  exile,  I 
saw  other  girls  of  my  age  passing  in  blithe  security 
by  the  side  of  their  mothers,  blushing  at  an  eager 
word  or  at  a  daring  glance.  Alas !  I  felt  that  I 
was  unworthy  to  kiss  the  hem  of  their  skirts. 

But  bliss  was  to  be  vouchsafed  to  me.  Redeem- 
ing and  triumphant  there  came  to  me  at  last  the 
Angel  of  Maternity.  With  proud  humility  I  bore 
the  little  human  flower  fluttering  in  my  breast. 


MAEIE  TAENOWSKA  37 

At  every  throb  of  life  I  felt  myself  swooning  with 
joy — with  the  inetfable  joy  of  my  reconquered 
purity. 

My  mother  was  with  me,  and  in  the  tender  haven 
of  her  arms  I  found  shelter  for  my  meek  and 
boundless  ecstasy. 

How  is  it  possible,  I  asked  myself,  that  there 
are  women  who  dread  this  perfect  happiness,  w^ho 
weep  and  suffer  through  these  months  fraught 
with  rapturous  two-fold  life? 

For  me,  I  felt  like  a  flowering  plant  in  spring- 
time, impelled  by  some  potent  influence  towards 
its  perfect  blossoming.  The  whole  of  that  blissful 
period  seemed  a  sublime  ascent  to  unalloyed  felic- 
ity ;  everything  enchanted  me,  from  the  awed  and 
tremulous  waiting  to  the  fi.nal  crowning  consum- 
mation. 

When  at  last  the  fragile  infant — my  son! — lay 
in  my  arms,  he  seemed  to  me  sufficient  to  fill  my 
entire  life.  I  nursed  him  into  ever-growing  won- 
der and  beauty.  Day  by  day  he  seemed  fairer, 
more  entrancing,  like  a  delicate  flower  in  some 
fantastic  lunar  legend. 

Oh,  the  wee  groping  hands  against  my  face! 
The  wilful  little  caprices,  the  cries  like  those  of 
an  angry  dove!  And  the  dimples  on  the  elbows; 
the  droll  battle  with  the  little  cap  always  awry, 


38  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

and  the  joyous  impatience  of  the  tiny  kicking  feet! 

Each  day  my  mother  and  I  invented  new  names 
for  him — names  of  little  flowers,  names  of  little 
animals,  nonsense-names  made  up  of  sweet  sense- 
less sounds. 

I  had  no  thought,  I  had  no  desire.  Pale  and 
pure  I  sat  enthroned  in  the  milk-white  paradise 
of  maternity. 


VI 

Soon  after  that  my  thoughts  are  adrift,  my  rec- 
ollections grow  confused.  I  see  my  mother  with 
my  baby  in  her  arms,  and  myself  in  traveling  at- 
tire, with  my  arms  twined  about  them,  weeping, 
despairing,  refusing  to  leave  them  and  set  out  on 
a  journey  of  Vassili's  planning.  But  Vassili 
grows  impatient.  Vassili  grows  angry.  He  is 
tired  of  playing  the  papa,  tired  of  seeing  me  no 
longer  a  little  '^firebrand,"  but  calm  as  a  young 
Madonna  in  the  beatific  purity  of  motherhood. 

Vassili  has  taken  it  into  his  head  that  he  wants 
to  study  singing.  He  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
go  to  Italy,  to  Milan,  to  study  scales  and  exercises ; 
and  I  must  go  with  him. 

''But  our  baby,  Vassili,  our  little  Tioka!  We 
must  take  our  baby  with  us ! " 

No.  Vassili  does  not  want  babies.  He  does 
not  want  to  be  bothered  or  hindered.  "We  are 
carting  about  eight  trunks  as  it  is!"  he  says, 
cynically. 

And  so  we  start  for  Italy — Italy,  the  yeamed- 
for  goal  of  all  my  girlish  dreams. 

At  Milan  Vassili  sings.    I  seem  always  to  see 

39 


40  MARIE  TAENOWSKA 

him  with  his  handsome  mouth  open,  singing  scales 
and  arpeggios.  But  a  slow  poison  is  creeping 
through  my  blood  and  I  fall  ill,  ill  with  typhoid 
fever. 

Again  my  thoughts  go  adrift  and  my  recollec- 
tions are  confused.  They  dance  in  grotesque  and 
hideous  visions  through  my  brain.  I  see  livid 
hallucinated  faces  peering  at  me,  towers  and 
mountains  tottering  above  me,  undefined  horrors 
all  about  me,  and  in  the  midst  of  them  all  I  see 
Vassili — singing!  He  sings  scales  and  arpeggios 
with  his  rounded  open  mouth.  Now  I  can  see  a 
white  spider — no,  two  white  spiders — running 
about  on  a  scarlet  coverlet.  .  .  .  They  are  my 
hands.  They  frighten  me.  And  Vassili  is  sing- 
ing. 

'^ Vassili,  why  are  you  singing?  Don't  sing! 
Don't  sing!" 

''No,  darling,  I  am  not  singing.  You  only 
imagine  it.  You  are  ill;  you  are  feverish.  Calm 
yourself. ' ' 

•  ••••••• 

' '  Vassili,  where  is  my  baby  1 ' ' 

"At  home  in  Kieff,  with  grandmama.  Dear 
grandmama  is  taking  such  good  care  of  him ! ' ' 

''And  why  are  we  not  with  him?  Where  are 
we?" 


MAEIE  TAENOWSKA  41 

''We  are  at  Pegli,  darling." 

''Why!  Why?  Where  is  Pegli?  What  are 
we  doing  at  Pegli?" 

"Come  now,  dearest;  you  know — ^we  came  to 
Italy  because  I  wanted  to  sing — " 

"Ah,  you  see!  You  wanted  to  sing!  Why  do 
you  want  to  sing  when  the  baby  is  crying?  The 
baby  is  so  helpless.  Why  did  you  take  me  away 
from  him?  You  sing,  you  sing  so  loud  that  I  can- 
not hear  my  baby  crying.     Don't  sing!" 

But  even  as  I  speak  I  see  that  Vassili  has  his 
round  mouth  open  again  and  he  sings  and  sings, 
and  the  white  spiders  run  over  the  scarlet  counter- 
pane and  come  close  to  my  face — and  the  white 
spiders  are  my  hands.  I  shriek  and  shriek  to 
have  them  taken  away.  But  the  baby  is  crying 
and  Vassili  is  singing  and  no  one  hears  me. 

Then  I  drop  down  to  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well. 
I  feel  myself  falling,  falling,  until  with  a  great 
shock  I  touch  the  bottom.  And  there  I  lie  motion- 
less in  the  dark. 

When  I  open  my  eyes  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
light;  the  windows  are  open,  the  sun  is  pouring 
in;  I  know  that  outside  there  is  the  sea.  Beside 
my  bed  sits  a  doctor  with  a  gray  beard,  feeling 


42  MARIE  TAENOWSKA 

my  pulse.  Under  the  light  intermittent  pressure 
of  his  fingers  my  pulse  seems  to  grow  quieter;  I 
can  see  the  doctor's  head  giving  little  nods  as  he 
counts  the  beats. 

''Sixty-five.  Excellent,  excellent!"  The  doc- 
tor pats  my  hand  gently  and  encouragingly. 
"That  is  first-rate.    We  are  quite  well  again." 

Then  I  hear  some  one  weeping  softly,  and  I 
know  it  is  my  mother.  I  try  to  turn  and  smile 
at  her,  but  my  head  will  not  move.  It  is  like  a 
ball  of  lead  sunk  in  the  pillow.  Immediately 
afterwards — or  have  years  passed? — I  hear  some 
one  say:  "Here  is  the  Professor!"  And  again 
the  same  doctor  with  the  gray  beard  comes  in  and 
smiles  at  me. 

Before  sitting  down  beside  the  bed  he  turns  to 
my  mother;  "Has  she  not  yet  asked  about  her 
child?"  My  mother  shakes  her  head  and  presses 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  Then  the  doctor 
sits  down  beside  my  bed  and  strokes  my  forehead 
and  speaks  to  me. 

He  speaks  about  a  baby.  He  repeats  a  name 
over  and  over  again — perhaps  it  is  Tioka.  Tioka? 
Who  is  Tioka?  I  watch  his  beard  moving  up  and 
down,  and  do  not  know  what  he  is  saying.  The 
ball  of  lead  on  my  pillow  rolls  from  side  to  side 
with  a  dull  and  heavy  ache. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  43 

My  mother  weeps  bitterly:  ''Oh,  doctor,  do  not 
let  her  die ! ' ' 

The  white  spiders  are  there  again,  running  over 
the  coverlet.  And  I  fall  once  more,  down,  down, 
down,  to  the  bottom  of  the  well. 


VII 

For  how  many  months  was  I  ill?  I  do  not 
know.  Vassili,  restless  and  idle,  "carted"  me 
and  my  medicines  and  my  sufferings  from  Pegli 
to  Genoa,  from  Genoa  to  Florence.  He  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  that  we  had  a  home ;  he  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  that  we  had  a  child. 

Our  rooms  at  the  hotel  in  Florence  were  bright 
with  sunshine  and  with  the  frivolous  gaiety  of 
a  graceful  trio  of  Kussian  ladies — the  Princess 
Dubinskaja,  her  sister  Vera  Vojatschek,  and  the 
fair-haired  Olga  Kralberg,  who  came  to  see  us 
every  day.  But  I  felt  lost  and  lonely,  as  if  astray 
in  the  world.  My  mother  had  returned  to  Russia, 
and  my  vacant  and  aching  heart  invoked  Vassili, 
who,  alas !  was  never  by  my  side. 

''You  must  win  him  back,"  said  Olga  Kralberg 
to  me  one  day — she,  whose  fate  it  was  on  a  not 
distant  day  to  commit  suicide  for  his  sake. 
''Every  man,  especially  if  he  is  a  husband,  has 
— after  some  time — to  be  won  back  again. ' ' 

"That  is   sooner  said  than  done,"   I   replied 

despondently.     "To  win  a  man  is  easy  enough. 

But  to  win  him  back — " 

U 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  45 

** There  are  various  ways  of  doing  it,"  she  said. 
''Have  you  tried  being  very  affectionate?" 

*'Yes,  indeed,"  said  I. 

''How  did  it  answer  I" 

"He  was  bored  to  death." 

"Have  you  tried  being  cool  and  distant?  Be- 
ing, so  to  speak,  a  stranger  to  him?" 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"And  he?" 

"He  never  even  noticed  that  I  was  being  a 
stranger  to  him.  He  was  as  happy  and  good- 
tempered  as  ever." 

Olga  shook  her  head  dejectedly.  "Have  you 
tried  being  hysterical?"  she  asked  after  a  while. 

I  hesitated.  ' '  I  think  so, "  I  said  at  last.  ' '  But 
I  do  not  quite  know  what  you  mean. ' ' 

"Well,"  explained  Olga  sententiously,  "with 
some  men,  who  cannot  bear  healthy  normal 
women,  hysteria  is  a  great  success.  Of  course,  it 
must  be  esthetic  hysteria — you  must  try  to  pre- 
serve the  plastic  line  through  it  all,"  and  Olga 
sketched  with  her  thumb  a  vague  painter's  gesture 
in  the  air.  "For  example,  you  deluge  yourself 
in  strange  perfumes.  You  trail  about  the  house 
in  weird  clinging  gowns.  You  faint  away  at  the 
sight  of  certain  shades  of  color — " 

"What  an  absurd  idea!"  I  exclaimed. 


46  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

''Not  at  all.  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Olga. 
' '  On  the  contrary,  it  is  very  modern,  very  piquant 
to  swoon  away  every  time  you  see  a  certain  shade 
of — of  mauve,  for  instance. ' ' 

' '  But  what  if  I  don 't  see  it  r '  ' 

''Silly!  You  must  see  it.  Give  orders  to  a 
shop  to  send  you  ten  yards  of  mauve  silk.  Open 
the  parcel  in  your  husband's  presence.  Then — 
then  you  totter;  you  fall  down — but  mind,"  added 
Olga,  "that  you  fall  in  a  graceful,  impressionist 
attitude.  Like  this."  And  Olga  illustrated  her 
meaning  in  what  appeared  to  me  a  very  foolish 
posture. 

' '  I  think  it  ridiculous, ' '  I  said  to  her.  And  she 
was  deeply  offended. 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  pinning  her  hat  on  briskly 
and  spitefully. 

''No,  no!  Don't  go  away.  Do  not  desert  me," 
I  implored.     ''Try  to  suggest  something  else." 

Olga  was  mollified.  After  reflecting  a  few  mo- 
ments she  remarked. 

"Have  you  tried  being  a  ray  of  sunshine  to 
him!" 

I  lost  patience  with  her.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  a  'ray  of  sunshine'?  You  seem  to  be  swayed 
by  stock  phrases,  such  as  one  reads  in  novels." 

This    time    Olga   was   not   offended.     She    ex- 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  47 

plained  that  in  order  to  be  a  ray  of  sunsliine  in  a 
man's  life,  one  must  appear  before  him  gay, 
sparkling  and  radiant  at  all  hours  of  the  day. 

'* Always  dress  in  the  lightest  of  colors.  Put 
a  ribbon  in  your  hair.  When  you  hear  his  foot- 
steps, run  to  meet  him  and  throw  your  arms  round 
his  neck.  When  he  goes  out,  toss  a  flower  to  him 
from  the  window.  When  he  seems  dull  or  silent, 
take  your  guitar  and  sing  to  him. ' ' 

*'You  know  I  don't  play  the  gTiitar,"  I  said 
pettishly. 

''That  does  not  matter.  What  really  counts  is 
the  singing.  The  atmosphere  that  surrounds  him 
should  be  bright  with  unstudied  gaiety.  He  ought 
to  live,  so  to  speak,  in  a  whirlwind  of  sunshine!" 

''Well,  I  will  try,"  I  sighed,  without  much  con- 
viction. 

I  did  try. 

I  dressed  in  the  lightest  of  colors  and  I  pinned 
a  ribbon  in  my  hair.  When  I  heard  his  footstep, 
I  ran  to  meet  him  and  threw  my  arms  round  his 
neck. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked.  "And  what 
on  earth  have  you  got  on  your  head?  You  look 
like  a  barmaid." 

To  the  best  of  my  powers  I  was  a  whirlwind  of 
sunshine;  and  as  soon  as  I  saw  that  he  was  dull 


48  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

and  silent  (and  this  occurred  almost  immediately) 
I  said  to  myself  that  the  moment  was  come  for  me 
to  sing  to  him. 

I  sat  down  at  the  piano.  I  have  not  much  ear, 
but  a  fine  strong  voice,  even  if  not  always  quite 
in  tune. 

At  the  second  bar  Vassili  got  up,  took  his  hat 
and  left  the  house.  I  threw  a  flower  to  him  from 
the  window. 

He  did  not  come  back  for  three  days. 


VIII 

When  I  talked  it  over  with  Olga,  she  was  very 
sympathetic. 

''I  know,"  she  mused,  ^'that  these  things  some- 
times succeed  and  sometimes  do  not.  Men  are  not 
all  alike."  Then  she  added:  ''But  there  is  one 
sure  way  of  winning  them  back.  It  is  an  old 
method,  but  infallible." 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  skeptically. 

"By  making  them  jealous.  It  is  vulgar,  it  is 
rococo,  it  causes  no  end  of  trouble.  But  it  is  in- 
fallible." 

We  reviewed  the  names  of  all  the  men  who  could 
possibly  be  employed  to  arouse  Vassili's  jealousy. 
We  could  think  of  no  one.  I  was  surrounded  by 
nothing  but  w^omen. 

"It  is  past  belief,"  said  Olga,  surveying  me 
from  head  to  foot,  "that  there  should  be  no  one 
willing  to — " 

I  shook  my  head  moodily.     "No  one  on  earth." 

Olga  grasped  my  wrist.  "Stay!  I  have  an 
idea.  We  will  get  some  one  who  is  not  on  earth. 
Some  one  who  is  dead.  It  will  be  much  simpler. 
I  remember  there  was  an  idea  of  that  kind  in 

49 


50  MARIE  TARNOWSICA 

an  unsuccessful  play  I  saw  a  year  or  two  ago. 
What  we  need  is  a  dead  man — recently  dead,  if 
possible,  and,  if  possible,  young.  If  he  has  com- 
mitted suicide,  so  much  the  better." 

' '  What  on  earth  do  you  want  with  a  dead  man  ? ' ' 
I  asked,  shuddering. 

* '  Why !  can 't  you  see  1  We  will  say  that  he  died 
for  your  sake!"  cried  Olga,  ''that  he  killed  him- 
self on  your  account.  We  Avill  have  a  telegram 
sent  to  us  by  some  one  in  Russia.  We  will  get 
them  to  telegraph  to  you:  'I  die  for  your  sake. 
Am  killing  myself.     Farewell!'  " 

"But  who  is  to  sign  it?" 

"Oh,  somebody  or  ather,"  said  Olga  vaguely. 
"Or  we  could  have  it  signed  with  an  imaginary 
name,  if  you  prefer  it.  That  would  enable  us  to 
dispense  with  the  corpse." 

"I  most  certainly  prefer  that,"  I  remarked. 
"But,  frankly,  I  can't  see — " 

"What  can't  you  see!  Don't  you  see  the  effect 
upon  Vassili  of  the  news  that  a  man  has  killed 
himself  for  your  sake?  Don't  you  see  the  new 
irresistible  attraction  which  you  will  then  exercise 
over  him?  Surely  you  know  what  strange  subtle 
charm  emanates  from  the  'fatal  woman' — the 
woman  whose  lethal  beauty — " 

"Very  well,  very  well,"  I  said,  slightly  encour- 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  51 

aged.    *  *  Let  us  have  the  telegram  written  and  sent 
to  me." 
We  spent  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  composing  it. 

Three  days  later  Vassili  entered  the  drawing- 
room  where  Olga  and  I  were  having  tea ;  he  held 
a  telegram  in  his  hand ;  his  face  was  of  a  ghastly 
pallor. 

*'He  's  got  it,"  whispered  Olga  hysterically, 
pinching  my  arm. 

''Mura,"  said  Vassili;  *'a  horrible  thing  has 
happened.  Horrible!"  His  white  lips  trembled 
as  he  uttered  the  incoherent  words : 

^'Dead — he  is  dead — he  has  killed  himself — " 

He  was  unable  to  go  on.  His  voice  broke  in 
a  sob. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet.     ''Who,  Vassili^     Who?" 

Olga  thought  the  moment  had  arrived  for  put- 
ting things  in  the  proper  light.  She  turned  to  me 
with  a  significant  glance,  and  grasped  my  hand. 

"Ah!  It  is  the  man  who  loved  you!"  she  ex- 
claimed.    "And  this — this  is  what  you  dreaded!" 

"Wliat!  What!"  shouted  Vassili,  clutching 
her  arm  and  pushing  her  roughly  aside.  Then 
he  turned  upon  me  and  seized  me  by  the  shoulder. 
"You — you  knew  of  this?    You  dreaded  this?" 

I  stood  trembling,  struck  dumb  with  terror.    I 


52  MARIE  TAKNOWSKA 

could  hear  tlie  futile  and  bewildered  explanations 
of  Olga : 

"Wliy,  surely,"  she  was  saying  with  an  insen- 
sate smile,  "it  is  a  thing  that  might  happen  to 
anybody.  It  is  not  her  fault  if  people  love  her 
to  distraction." 

But  Vassili  was  crushing  my  wrist.  "My 
brother — he  loved  you?"  he  gasped. 

''Your  brother?  Your  brother — little  Peter?" 
I  stammered. 

"Yes,  yes!  Peter,"  shouted  Vassili.  "My 
brother!     "What  have  you  to  do  with  his  death?" 

"Nothing,  nothing."  I  groaned.  "I  swear  it 
— nothing ! ' ' 

And  Olga,  realizing  at  last  that  she  stood  in  the 
presence  of  a  genuine  tragedy  and  not  of  the  jest 
we  had  plotted,  darted  forward  and  caught  his 
arm. 

"Vassili,  you  are  mistaken.  She  knows  nothing 
about  it;  nothing  whatever.  We  had  planned  a 
joke  to  play  on  you,  and  we  thought — "  She 
pursued  her  agitated  and  incoherent  explanations. 

Vassili  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  scan- 
ning our  faces,  hardly  hearing  what  Olga  was  say- 
ing. Suddenly  he  seemed  to  understand,  and 
loosening  his  hold  on  my  arm  he  fell  upon  the 
couch  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 


MAEIE  TAKNOWSKA  53 

The  telegram  had  dropped  on  the  carpet.  Olga 
picked  it  up  and  read  it ;  then  she  handed  it  to  me : 

Peter  hanged  himself  last  night.    Come  at  once. 

Tarnowsky. 

We  left  for  Kieff  the  same  evening.  Through- 
out the  entire  journey  Vassili  never  spoke.  I  sat 
mournful  and  silent  opposite  him  and  thought  of 
my  brother-in-law,  Peter.  Not  of  the  pale  youth, 
already  corrupted  by  absinthe  and  women,  whom 
we  had  left  at  Kieff  a  few  months  before,  but  of 
the  child  Peter,  in  his  short  velvet  suit  and  lace 
collar,  whom  I  had  loved  so  dearly  in  the  days  of 
my  girlhood — little  Peter  who  used  to  run  to  meet 
me  in  the  sun-splashed  avenues  of  the  Villa  Tar- 
nowsky, trotting  up  with  his  little  bare  legs  and 
serious  face,  stopping  to  be  kissed  and  then  trot- 
ting hurriedly  off  again,  the  nape  of  his  neck  show- 
ing fair  and  plump  beneath  the  upturned  brim  of 
his  sailor-hat. 

How  well  I  remember  that  sailor-hat!  The 
black  ribbon  round  the  crown  bore,  between  two 
anchors,  the  word,  ^'Implacable";  and  from  under 
that  fierce  device  the  round  and  gentle  counte- 
nance of  little  Peter  gazed  mildly  out  into  the 
world. 

Little  Peter's  legs  were  always  cold.    He  was 


54  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

brought  up  in  English  fashion,  with  short  socks 
even  in  the  depths  of  winter.  From  afar  you 
could  see  little  Peter's  chilly  bare  legs,  crimson 
against  a  background  of  snow.  Sometimes,  rub- 
bing his  knees,  he  would  say  to  me :  *'I  wish  God 
had  made  me  of  fur,  instead  of — of  leather,  like 
this."  And  again  he  would  remark:  "I  don't 
like  being  alive.  Not  that  I  want  to  die;  but  I 
wish  I  had  never  begun." 

And  now  little  Peter  had  finished.  Little  Peter 
lay  solemn  and  magnificent  in  the  chamhre  ardente 
where  his  dead  ancestors  had  lain  solemn  and 
magnificent  before  him.  ''Implacable"  indeed 
he  lay,  unmoved  by  the  tears  of  his  mother  and 
father;  his  lofty  brow  was  marble;  his  fair  eye- 
lashes lowered  over  his  quenched  and  upturned 
eyes. 

When  I  thought  of  him  thus  I  felt  afraid. 

And  it  seemed  strange  to  be  afraid  of  little 
Peter. 


IX 

After  we  had  crossed  the  Eussian  frontier 
another  thought — a  thought  that  filled  me  with 
unspeakable  happiness — put  all  others  to  flight: 
my  child!  I  should  see  my  child  again!  All  our 
relations  would  certainly  be  assembled  at  the 
Tamowskys'  house,  so  I  should  find  my  parents 
and  my  little  Tioka  there  too.  The  image  of  the 
living  child  soon  displaced  the  tragic  memory  of 
the  dead  youth.  As  the  train  sped  towards  Kieff 
my  fever  of  gladness  and  impatience  increased. 
Yes,  to-morrow  would  be  poor  Peter's  funeral,  but 
this  very  evening  I  should  clasp  little  Tioka  in 
my  arms ! 

Raising  my  eyes,  I  saw  that  Vassili  was  looking 
at  me  with  a  scowl.  ''I  have  been  watching  you 
for  some  time,"  he  said.  '^ Heartless  creature 
that  you  are,  to  laugh — to  laugh  in  the  face  of 
death." 

"I  was  thinking  of  Tioka,"  I  stammered. 
Vassili  did  not  reply.  But  in  the  depths  of  my 
heart  joy  sang  and  whispered  like  a  hidden 
fountain. 

55 


56  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

Thus,  inwardly  rejoicing,  did  I  enter  the  house 
of  death  and  hasten  to  the  dark-red  room — the 
very  scene  of  Peter's  suicide — in  which  they  had 
placed  my  baby's  cradle;  thus,  while  others 
mourned  with  prayers  and  tears  in  the  gloomy 
death-chamber,  I  ran  across  the  sun-filled  garden 
holding  my  infant  to  my  breast.  I  hid  myself 
with  him  in  the  orchard  and  laughed  and  laughed 
aloud,  as  I  kissed  his  starry  eyes  and  his  tiny, 
flower-like  mouth. 

But  Death,  the  Black  Visitor,  had  entered  my 
life.  Little  Peter  had  shown  him  the  way,  had 
opened  the  door  to  him. 

From  that  day  forward  the  dread  Intruder 
never  forsook  my  threshold. 

Death,  lurking  at  my  door  in  terrifying  silence, 
stretched  out  his  hand  at  intervals  and  clutched 
some  one  belonging  to  me.  Generally  it  was  with 
a  swift  gesture — a  fell  disease  or  a  pistol-shot — 
that  he  struck  down  and  flung  into  the  darkness 
those  I  loved. 

But  towards  me  Death  comes  with  a  slower, 
more  deliberate  tread.  For  years,  ever  since  the 
birth  of  my  little  daughter  Tania, — my  white  rose- 
bud bom  midst  the  snows  of  a  dreary  winter  in 
Kieff — I  have  felt  Death  creeping  towards  me, 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  57 

slow,  insidious,  inexorable,  holding  in  his  hand  a 
knot  of  serpents,  each  of  which  will  fasten  its 
poisoned  fangs  upon  me.  Disease,  the  venomous 
snake,  will  hide  in  my  bosom  and  thrust  its  way 
through  my  veins.  The  heavy  snake  of  Grief  will 
coil  round  my  h'eart  and  crush  me  in  its  spirals. 
Insanity  will  glide  into  my  brain  and  nest  there. 
Then — last  but  not  least  horrible — the  little  glass 
viper,  the  syringe  of  Pravaz,  whose  fang  is  a  hol- 
low needle,  will  draw  me  into  the  thraldom  of  its 
virulent  grip.  It  will  spurt  its  venom  into  my 
blood.  The  bland  balm  of  coca,  the  milky  juice  of 
the  poppy,  will  flow  into  my  veins,  soothing, 
assuaging,  lulling  me  into  sleep  and  forgetfulness 
— only  to  waken  me  in  renewed  agony  of  suffering 
to  a  renewed  bite  of  the  envenomed  fang.  For  the 
only  antidote  to  the  poison  of  narcotics  is  the 
narcotic  itself,  the  only  alleviation  to  the  tearing 
agony  of  the  poison  generated  by  morphia  is  mor- 
phia again.  And  so  the  fatal  sequence  swings  on 
forever,  in  ever-widening  circles  of  torment.  .  .  . 


From  Alexis  Bozevsky  to  Stepan  Nehrasof. 

KiEFF,  Thursday. 

Dear  Stepan,  my  good  Friend, — 

I  am  here  in  the  house  of  your  cousin.  Dr.  Stahl,  who 
seems  to  have  grown  longer  and  leaner  than  ever.  He  is  a 
mere  shadow.  It  is  here  that  your  letter  reaches  me.  You  tell 
me  to  write  to  you  about  myself.  To-day,  the  15th  of  October, 
1903,  I  am  twenty-four  years  old.  What  gift  will  Destiny 
give  me  for  my  birthday ?     Love?    Wealth?    A  hero's  death! 

Your  cousin  Stahl,  in  his  cavernous  voice  that  seems  to  come 
echoing  up  from  underground,  says  that  the  gift  of  Destiny 
is  precisely  these  f  our-and-twenty  years  of  mme !  Perhaps  he 
is  right.  I  feel  them  eddying  in  my  blood  like  four-and-twenty 
cyclones. 

The  world  is  a  whirlwind  of  youth. 

Kaufmann  this  morning  lent  me  his  sorrel  stallion — the 
finest  horse  in  the  Empire — and  I  had  a  gallop  along  the 
bastions.  All  the  women  looked  at  me.  In  a  phaeton  I  saw 
the  brazen  and  beautiful  Princess  Theodora,  blonde  and  torrid 
as  a  Mexican  landscape.  She  was  resplendent  in  amethyst 
and  heliotrope,  her  red  locks  flaming  to  the  sun ;  no  one  but  a 
princess  would  permit  herself  to  display  such  a  riot  of  violent 
colors. 

Soon  afterwards  I  saw  Vera  Voroklizkaja,  reclining  in  her 
carriage,  aloof  and  severe  as  a  vestal  virgm ;  her  glossy  black 
tresses  parted  over  her  brow  enclosed  the  narrow  oval  of  her 
face  like  soft  black  wings.  Beside  her  sat  little  Miriam  Grey, 
clothed  m  her  youthfulness  as  in  an  armor  of  roses.     The 

58 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  59 

beauty  of  all  these  women  coui'ses  through  my  blood  like  sun 
and  wine. 

Upon  my  word  life  is  an  excellent  institution. 

And  you — what  are  yovi  doing? 

Ever  yours, 

BOZEVSKY. 

The  next  day. 

Stepan,  Stepan,  Stepan! — 

I  am  in  love!  Madly,  sublimely,  tragically  in  love!  This 
morning  I  went  to  the  parade-gTOund  as  in  a  dream;  I  found 
myself  speakuag-  to  the  colonel  in  a  gentle  winning  voice  that 
was  perfectly  ludicrous.  When  I  drilled  my  company  I  could 
hear  myself  giving-  the  words  of  command  in  an  imploring 
tone  which  I  still  blush  to  remember.  I  am  obsessed,  halluci- 
nated; there  floats  before  my  eyes  a  slender,  ethereal  creature, 
■with  red  lips  that  never  smile,  and  hair  that  looks  like  a  cataract 
of  champagne. 

Stahl  introduced  me  to  her  yesterday,  here  at  his  house. 
''Come,"  he  said,  taking  me  by  the  arm.  "You  are  going  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  a  superior  being,  soft  of  voice  and 
sad  of  countenance,  who  bears  the  gentle  name  of  Marie." 

''Let  me  off,"  I  replied  skeptically.  "Sad  and  superior  be- 
ings are  not  to  my  liking." 

"You  will  like  this  one,"  said  Stahl. 

"I  know  I  shan't,"  I  replied  curtly.  I  saw  Stahl's  eye  warn 
me,  and,  turning,  found  myself  face  to  face  with  the  subject  of 
our  conversation,  a  tall,  flower-like  vision,  with  translucent 
eyes  and  a  mystic  inscrutable  face. 

I  knew  she  had  overheard  me,  and  as  I  bowed  low  before  her, 
she  said:  "That  you  should  like  me  is  of  no  importance. 
"What  really  matters  is  that  I  should  be  pleased  with  you." 

Her  beauty  and  the  scornful  levity  of  her  words  struck  me 
strangely.     "Madame,"  and  I  was  surprised  to  feel  that  I  spoke 


60  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

with  sincerity,  "to  please  you  will  be  henceforward  the  highest 
aim  of  my  desire." 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment;  then  she  spoke  quietly:  ''You 
have  attained  your  aim." 

She  turned  and  left  me.  I  stood  thunderstruck  by  the  brief 
and  daring  reply  and  by  the  flash  of  that  clear  gaze.  She 
had  spoken  the  words  without  a  smile. 

She  did  not  address  me  during  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
When  she  left,  she  barely  glanced  at  me  and  vouchsafed  neither 
smile  nor  greeting. 

Just  for  an  instant  she  raised  her  black-fringed  eyes  and 
gazed  at  me ;  then  her  lashes  fell ;  and  it  was  as  if  a  light  had 
been  blown  out. 

I  am  in  love  with  her !  Madly,  divinely,  desperately  in  love. 
Ah,  Stepan,  love — what  an  ecstasy  and  what  a  disaster! 

Your  BOZEVSKT. 

It  was  Dr.  Stalil,  the  ' '  Satanic  Stalil, ' '  who  got 
these  letters  from  his  cousin  Stepan  Nebrasoff, 
and  showed  them  to  me.  They  bewildered  and 
troubled  me.  What?  -Was  I  really  so  attractive 
and  so  perturbing  in  the  eyes  of  the  gallant  young 
Pole — the  handsomest  officer  in  the  Imperial 
Guard  ?  I  repeated  to  myself  his  disquieting  epi- 
thets: ''flower-like,"  ''ethereal,"  "inscrutable"; 
and  in  my  room  at  night  when  I  loosened  my  hair, 
I  wondered:  "Does  it  really  look  like  a  cataract 
of  champagne  1 ' '  When  I  went  out  I  never  smiled, 
even  when  I  felt  inclined  to  do  so,  since  my  gravity 
had  seemed  so  charming  to  him. 

Night  and  day  he  followed  me  like  a  shadow — 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  61 

or  rather,  should  I  say,  like  a  blaze  of  light.  In 
whatever  direction  I  turned  I  was  sure  to  en- 
counter his  radiant  smile  and  his  flashing  glance. 
His  passion  encompassed  me;  I  felt  like  Brunn- 
hilde  surrounded  by  a  sea  of  flame.  I  was  elated 
yet  terrified. 

One  evening  at  dinner  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
speak  to  Vassili  about  it. 

''Vassili,"  I  said  falteringly,  *'I  think  we  ought 
to  go  away  for  a  time. ' ' 

''Away?    Where  to?"  asked  my  husband. 

''Anywhere — anywhere  away  from  Kieff." 

"Why?" 

I  felt  myself  turning  pale!  "I  am  afraid,"  I 
stammered,  "I  am  afraid — that  Bozevsky — " 

"Well?"  asked  Vassili  serenely,  pouring  some 
vodka  into  his  champagne  and  drinking  it. 

"I  am  afraid  that  Bozevsky  is  falling  in  love 
with  me. ' ' 

"And  who  would  not  fall  in  love  with  you, 
dushka?"  laughed  Vassili.  "As  for  Bozevsky, 
may  the  wolves  eat  him." 

And  dinner  being  over,  he  lit  his  cigar  and  went 
out. 

•  •«••••• 

I  go  sadly  upstairs  to  the  nursery  where  Tioka 
and  Tania,  like  blonde  seraphs,  lie  asleep. 


62  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

A  dim  lamp  hangs  between  the  two  white  cots 
and  illumines  their  favorite  picture — an  artless 
painting  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  holding  in  her  youth- 
ful arms  the  infant  Jesus  with  a  count's  coronet 
on  His  head. 

I  kneel  down  beside  the  two  little  beds  and 
weep. 

Aunt  Sonia,  rectilinear  and  asexual  in  her  gray 
flannel  dressing-gown,  comes  in  softly  and  bends 
over  me. 

*' You  must  trust  in  Providence,"  she  says,  rais- 
ing towards  the  ceiling  her  long  virginal  face. 
''And  take  a  little  camomile  tea.  That  always 
does  one  good." 

I  obey  her  meekly  and  gratefully.  It  comforts 
me  to  think  that  a  day  will  come  when  I  also  shall 
be  like  Aunt  Sonia;  when  I  also  shall  be  content 
to  wear  gray  flannel  dressing-go"UTis  and  turn  in 
my  sorrows  to  Providence  and  to  camomile  tea. 

And  I  wish  that  that  day  of  peace  were  near. 


XI 

So  we  stayed  on  in  Kieff  and  Bozevsky  came 
to  see  us  every  day.  He  brought  me  flowers — 
wonderful  orchids  the  color  of  amethyst,  tenuous 
contorted  blossoms  that  looked  as  if  they  had 
bloomed  in  some  garden  of  dreams.  He  brought 
me  books;  books  of  nebulous  German  poetry; 
Spanish  plays  by  Echegaray  all  heroism  and  fire ; 
and  disquieting,  neurotic  French  novels.  Then  he 
brought  me  English  books  which  filled  me  with 
pleasant  surprise.  How  far  removed  from  our 
Slav  souls  were  those  limpid  Anglo-Saxon  minds ! 
How  child-like  and  simple  was  their  wit,  how 
bland  and  practical  their  outlook  on  life.  That 
was  the  literature  I  liked  best  of  all;  perhaps  be- 
cause it  was  so  different  from  everything  in  my- 
self. I  felt  that  I  was  a  strange,  ambiguous, 
complicated  creature  compared  with  those  candid 
elemental  natures. 

Bozevsky  liked  to  find  me  reading.    He  would 

arrive  in  the  evening — usually  after  Vassili  had 

gone    out,    alone    or    with    friends — and    enter 

es 


64  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

the  drawing-room  with  bright  and  cheerful  greet- 
ing. He  always  smiled  w^hen  he  found  me  with 
one  of  his  books  in  my  hand,  sitting  beside  Aunt 
Sonia  placidly  knitting  in  her  armchair. 

* '  I  like  your  thoughts  to  be  far  away  from  here, ' ' 
he  would  say,  kissing  my  hand.  "I  like  to  know 
that  your  soul  is  far  from  the  frivolous  society 
you  live  in,  far  from  the  petty  preoccupations, 
the  compliments  and  the  flattery  which  surround 
you.  Let  me  read  with  you;  let  me  join  you 
in  the  purer  realm  of  fancy,  far  away  from  the 
world."  And  he  would  sit  down  beside  me,  with 
an  air  of  protecting  fraternal  affection. 

One  evening  he  found  me  nervous  and  agitated. 

''What  has  happened?"  he  asked. 

''I  have  been  reading  a  ghastly  book,"  I  told 
him  with  a  shudder.  ' '  The  story  of  a  mysterious 
plant,  a  sort  of  huge  octopus  that  feeds  on  human 
flesh—" 

"Ugh!"  laughed  Bozevsky,  ''how  gruesome!" 
and  he  bent  his  sunny  head  over  the  page. 

"Just  imagine,"  I  continued,  "its  branches  are 
long  moving  tentacles,  its  thick  leaves  are  quite 
black  and  hard ;  they  glitter  and  move  like  living 
scorpions.  ..." 

"Horrid,  horrid,"  said  Bozevsky  with  his  shin- 
ing smile  as  he  took  the  book  out  of  my  hand. 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  65 

<' Forget  the  scorpions.  To-niglit  I  shall  read 
you  some  Italian  poetry.  I  want  you  to  make 
friends  with  Carducci. ' ' 

He  opened  a  plainly  bound  volume  at  random, 
and  read  to  me. 

''Oh  favolosi  prati  d'Eliseo  .  .  ." 

I  forgot  the  tree  of  scorpions.  I  forgot  Bozev- 
sky.  I  forgot  Aunt  Sonia  and  the  world.  The 
unknown  poet  had  wrapped  my  spirit  in  his  giant 
wings  and  was  bearing  me  far  away. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Vassili  took  me  to 
Moscow.  There,  one  evening,  our  friends  the 
Maximoffs  brought  a  stranger  to  see  us.  They 
introduced  him  as  an  estimable  Moscow  lawyer 
of  high  repute.  I  was  surrounded  by  other 
friends  and  I  greeted  him  absently,  without  hear- 
ing his  name.  I  remember  casually  noticing  that 
he  was  neither  young  nor  old,  neither  ugly  nor 
handsome.  His  wife,  a  timid,  fair-haired  woman, 
was  with  him. 

At  Vassili 's  suggestion  we  all  went  to  the 
''Strelna,"  a  famous  night-restaurant.  I  re- 
member that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  laughter 
at  the  grotesque  jokes  which  Vassili  and  Maximoff 
and  also  the  estimable  lawyer  played  on  the  pretty 
dark-faced  tziganes. 


66  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

I  noticed  that  the  lawyer's  wife  did  not  laugh. 
She  passed  her  hand  across  her  wistful  Madonna- 
like brow,  and  listened  only  to  the  music. 

Like  her  I  felt  out  of  tune  with  the  merriment 
around  me.  My  thoughts  wandered  back  to  the 
silent  drawing-room  at  Kieff:  I  thought  of  Aunt 
Sonia  and  her  peaceful  knitting,  of  Bozevsky  and 
the  books  he  had  brought  me.  I  seemed  to  hear 
his  voice  saying,  "Ugh!  a  tree  of  scorpions"— 
and  at  that  very  instant  something  cold  and  claw- 
like clutched  my  bare  shoulder.  I  uttered  a 
piercing  shriek,  which  seemed  to  turn  every  one- 
including  myself— cold  with  terror.  But  it  was 
only  the  estimable  lawyer,  who,  having  drunk 
rather  too  much,  had  playfully  climbed  upon  the 
sofa  behind  me  and,  to  save  himself  from  falling 
off,  had  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 

"What  on  earth  has  happened?"  exclaimed 
Vassili.     "What  made  you  scream  like  that?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  stammered,  taken  aback,  "I 
thought — I  thought  it  was  a  scorpion!" 

Every  one  laughed  and  for  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing the  lawyer  was  nicknamed  "the  Scorpion." 
Perhaps  this  name  added  to  the  unreasoning  fear 
I  felt  of  him,  or  perhaps  I  was  merely  nervous, 
but  he  seemed  to  be  always  close  behind  me,  and 
during  the  whole  of  that  evening  I  kept  on  turn- 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  67 

ing  round,  with  little  shivers  running  down  my 
spine,  to  see  what  he  was  doing. 

Suddenly  he  had  disappeared.  Vassili  laughed 
loudly.  ' '  Hullo !  Where  's  the  Scorpion  I ' '  And 
amidst  the  laughter  of  the  guests  he  set  himself 
to  count  the  flippant  tziganes  one  by  one  to  see 
if  any  were  missing.  But  they  were  all  there — 
and  I  was  glad  for  the  sake  of  the  Scorpion's  poor 
little  Madonna-wife. 

It  was  three  in  the  morning  when  we  went  back 
to  our  sleighs.  It  was  very  cold;  the  clear  deep- 
blue  sky  was  powdered  with  stars.  Assisted  by 
Maximoff  I  was  about  to  step  into  the  sleigh, 
when,  with  another  cry,  I  drew  back ;  my  foot  had 
touched  something  soft  and  shapeless  that  was 
lying  huddled  up  beneath  the  rug. 

''What  is  the  matter  now?"  cried  Vassili. 
** Another  scorpion?" 

No,  it  was  the  same  one.  It  was  the  estimable 
lawyer  very  drunk  and  fast  asleep  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sleigh. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  hotel,  driving  through 
the  keen  night  air,  I  asked  Vassili: 

**Who  was  that  manf" 

''What  man?"  said  Vassili,  who  sat  opposite 
to  us  and  was  pressing  the  small  feet  of  Maximoff 's 
wife. 


68  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

*'You  know — the  man  who  frightened  me." 

"Oh,  the  Scorpion?"  laughed  Vassili.  ''That 
was  Donat  Prilukoff." 

When  we  returned  to  Kieff  I  told  Bozevsky  the 
adventure  of  our  evening  at  the  Strelna,  and  de- 
scribed the  Scorpion  to  him  with  as  much  humor 
as  I  could.  But  Bozevsky  did  not  laugh.  My 
absence  had  embittered  and  exasperated  him. 
He  no  longer  sat  beside  me  with  an  air  of  protec- 
tive fraternal  affection.  He  would  not  speak  of 
literature  or  poetry  any  more.  He  spent  entire 
evenings  making  mute  scenes  of  jealousy  and 
despair,  while  dear  Aunt  Sonia,  instinctively 
feeling  the  atmosphere  around  her  charged  with 
electricity,  dropped  many  stitches  in  her  knitting 
and  became  sour  and  irritable. 

''My  child,  this  must  not  go  on  any  longer. 
Either  Alexis  Bozevsky  must  be  forbidden  the 
house  or  we  ourselves  must  go  away.  I  cannot 
understand  how  Vassili — "  Her  honest  cheeks 
kindled  with  indignation.  "Enough.  I  shall 
speak  to  him  about  it  myself." 

She  did  so:  and  Vassili,  with  his  usual  brief 
comment  that  we  all  bored  him  to  death,  expressed 
the  hope  that  wild  beasts  might  devour  Bozevsky, 
and  ordered  us  to  pack  up  and  leave  for  the 
country  at  once. 


XII 

So  we  all  left  for  the  country — to  the  great 
delight  of  Aunt  Sonia  and  the  children. 

Let  my  mind  linger  for  an  instant  on  those 
springtide  days — the  last  for  me,  though  I  did  not 
know  it,  of  unalloyed  serenity.  The  children  and 
I  used  to  rise  at  dawn  and  go  into  the  vast  garden 
all  a-shimmer  with  dew.  On  the  glittering  lawn, 
among  the  flower-beds,  down  the  shady  avenues 
of  the  park  the  two  little  elfin  figures  flitted  before 
me,  calling  to  me,  eluding  me,  darting  to  and  fro 
like  twin  will-o'-the-wisps;  then  turned  and  ran 
towards  me  with  wind-light  steps  and  gilt  locks 
afloat,  to  shelter  in  my  outstretched  arms.  Oh! 
my  children,  my  little  boy  and  girl,  when  you  re- 
member your  mother  I  pray  that  God  may  lead 
your  memories  back  to  those  clear  morning  hours, 
and  may  the  rest  be  blotted  out  and  dark. 

Vassili  was  inexpressibly  bored  with  rural  soli- 
tude and  sought  new  means  of  diversion.  His 
latest  fad  was  target-shooting.  He  filled  the 
house  with  rifles  and  revolvers  and  invited  every 

69 


70  MARIE  TARXOWSKA 

one  in  tlie  neighboring  country  houses  to  take 
part  in  shooting  matches  in  our  grounds.  From 
morning  to  night,  in  the  garden,  in  the  courtyard, 
even  from  the  windows  of  the  house,  there  was  a 
ceaseless  crackling  of  firearms. 

One  afternoon  when  the  house  was  filled  with 
guests,  Dr.  Stahl  and  Bozevsky  arrived  in  their 
troika  from  the  neighboring  castle  of  the 
Grigorievskys,  where  they  had  been  staying.  To 
my  astonishment,  Vassili  received  them  jubilantly 
and  embraced  them  both.  He  had  quite  forgotten 
the  reasons  which  had  led  to  our  departure  from 
Kieff. 

Bozevsk^"  came  to  greet  me  at  once,  and  for 
the  rest  of  the  day  never  left  my  side.  He  en- 
veloped me  in  a  whirlwind  of  ecstatic  tenderness. 
His  infatuation,  which  he  sought  neither  to  con-^ 
ceal  nor  to  control,  disquieted  me  deeply. 

I  noticed  that  his  friend  Dr.  Stahl  watched  us 
continually.  I  had  not  seen  the  doctor  for  many 
months,  and  he  struck  me  as  strangely  altered. 
His  very  light  eyes,  in  which  the  pupils  were 
contracted  until  they  seemed  mere  pin-points, 
followed  me  continuously. 

*' Doctor,"  I  said  to  him,  ''what  strange  eyes 
you  have!  Just  like  the  eyes  of  a  cat  when  it 
looks  at  the  sun!" 


MAEIE  TARXOWSKA  71 

''I  do  not  look  at  the  sun,"  lie  answered  slowly, 
speaking  with  great  stress.  ''I  look  into  an  abyss, 
the  abyss  of  annihilation  and  obli%-ion.  Some  day, 
if  ever  you  are  irremediably  unhappy,  come  to 
me  and  I  will  open  to  you,  also,  the  doors  of  my 
unearthly  paradise — of  this  chasm  of  deadly  joy 
which  engulfs  me." 

^ '  Shame  on  you,  Stahl !  How  dare  you  suggest 
such  a  thing!"  exclaimed  Bozevsky,  casting  a  look 
almost  of  hatred  upon  the  morphinomaniac. 
"Why  must  you  and  your  kind  always  seek  to 
drag  others  down  into  your  own  gehenna?" 

Stahl  sighed.  "It  is  terrible,  I  know.  But  it 
is  a  characteristic  of  our  malady." 

I  listened  without  comprehending.  I  did  not 
then  know  of  Stahl 's  enslavement  to  the  drug. 
"What  are  you  speaking  of?  What  malady?  I 
do  not  understand. ' ' 

"It  is  better  not  to  understand,"  murmured 
Bozevsky  with  knitted  brows.  "Stahl  is  dis- 
traught ;  he  is  ill.  Pay  no  attention  to  him.  And 
never  follow  either  his  advice  nor  his  example. 
But  pray,"  he  added,  "do  not  worry  your  head 
over  anything  we  have  said;  the  shooting  match 
will  soon  begin.  I  think  your  husband  is  looking 
for  you." 

But  Vassili  was  far  from  troubling  himself  about 


72  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

me.  He  was  rushing  to  and  fro  setting  up  rows 
of  bottles  that  were  to  serve  as  targets,  and  dis- 
tributing guns  and  cartridges  to  all  our  guests. 
Then  he  hurried  towards  us.  ''There,"  he  said 
to  Dr.  Stahl  and  to  Bozevsky,  giving  them  each  a 
Flobert  rifle,  ''these  are  for  you." 

*'And  what  about  the  Countess?"  asked  Stahl 
in  his  hollow  voice.  "Is  she  not  going  to  compete 
in  the  shooting?" 

' '  Oh,  no ! "  I  exclaimed.  ' '  I  am  much  too  fright- 
ened." 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Vassili,  pushing  a  gun  into 
my  unwilling  hands.  "Of  course  you  must  shoot 
with  the  rest.  And  I  warn  you  that  if  you  are 
not  brave  I  shall  play  William  Tell  with  an  apple 
on  your  head!"  He  passed  on  laughing,  with 
Madame  Grigorievskaja  armed  with  a  Browning 
by  his  side. 

I  was  not  at  all  brave;  I  held  the  rifle  at  arm's 
length,  trembling  with  fear  lest  it  should  explode 
by  itself.  Stahl  was  amused  by  my  terror,  while 
Bozevsky  sought  to  encourage  and  comfort  me. 

"Poor  timid  birdling,"  he  murmured,  "do  not 
be  frightened.  See,  I  will  teach  you.  It  is  done 
like  this" — and  he  lifted  the  gun  to  my  shoulder, 
placed  my  hands  in  position,  and  with  his  glowing 
face  quite  close  to  mine,  showed  me  how  I  was  to 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  73 

take  aim.  What  with  my  terror  of  the  gun  and 
the  fragrance  of  his  fair  hair  near  my  cheek  I  felt 
quite  dizzy. 

''There,  that  's  it.     Now  press  the  trigger." 

"No!  no!  Don't  say  that!  don't  let  me!"  I 
screamed,  incoherent  with  terror  while  Stahl  and 
Bozevsky  laughed. 

Vassili  from  a  distance  caught  sight  of  me: 
"Bravo,  Mura!"  he  cried.  "That's  right.  Go 
on.     Shoot!" 

"No!  no!"  I  cried  with  my  eyes  shut  and 
standing  rigid  in  the  position  in  which  Bozevsky 
had  placed  me,  for  I  dared  not  move  a  muscle. 

Vassili  called  impatiently:  "What  on  earth 
are  you  waiting  for?" 

Still  motionless,  I  gasped : 

"Perhaps — I  might  dare — if  some  one  were  to 
cover  my  ears." 

Amidst  great  amusement  Bozevsky  came  behind 
me  and  placed  his  two  hands  over  my  ears. 

' '  Come  now ! ' '  cried  Stahl.  ' '  Do  not  be  fright- 
ened." 

"Mind  you  hit  the  third  bottle,"  shouted  Vassili 
from  the  distance. 

Bozevsky  standing  behind  me  was  clasping  my 
head  as  though  in  a  vice  and  whispering  into  my 
hair:     "Darling,  darling,  darling!     I  love  you," 


74  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

** Don't,"  I  cried,  almost  in  tears  under  the 
stress  of  different  emotions,  ''and  don't  hold  my 
ears  so  tight." 

The  warm  clasp  relaxed  at  once. 

' '  Oh,  no,  no ! "  I  cried.  ' '  I  can  hear  everything. 
I  don't  want  to  hear — ,"  but  even  as  I  spoke  the 
gun  went  off.  I  felt  a  blow  near  my  shoulder,  and 
thought  I  was  wounded ;  but  it  was  only  the  recoil 
of  the  weapon. 

Everybody  was  laughing  and  applauding. 

''What  have  I  killed T'  I  asked,  cautiously 
opening  my  eyes. 

"The  third  bottle!"  cried  Vassili,  and  he  was 
so  delighted  with  my  exploit  that  he  ran  up  and 
embraced  me.  But  the  pistol  he  was  holding  in 
his  hand  and  Bozevsky's  glance  of  jealous  wrath 
filled  me  afresh  with  twofold  terror. 

The  afternoon  passed  as  if  in  a  dream.  Vassili 
became  very  much  excited  and  drank  a  great  deal 
of  vodka.  Then  Madame  Grigorievskaja,  who 
had  once  visited  the  United  States,  concocted 
strange  American  drinks  which  we  had  never 
tasted  before — cocktails,  mint-juleps,  pousse-cafes 
and  gin-slings.  They  were  much  approved  of  by 
every  one. 

I  remember  vaguely  that  half  way  through  the 
afternoon  some  one  let  down  my  hair  and  set  me 


MARIE  TARNOAVSIvA  75 

among  the  shattered  bottles  with  an  apple  on  my 
head.  I  seem  to  see  Vassili  standing  in  front  of 
me  with  a  rifle  and  taking  aim  at  me  while  the 
others  utter  cries  of  protest.  Suddenly  Bozevsky 
snatches  the  weapon  from  my  husband's  hands, 
and  there  is  a  brief  struggle  between  them.  Soon 
they  are  laughing  again,  and  shaking  hands — then 
Bozevsky  joins  me  among  the  shattered  bottles, 
and  stands  in  front  of  me ;  he  is  so  tall  that  I  can 
see  nothing  but  his  broad  shoulders  and  his  fair 
hair.  And  Vassili  is  shooting — the  bullets  whirr 
over  my  head  and  all  around  me,  but  I  have  no 
sense  of  fear ;  Bozevsky  stands  before  me,  straight 
and  motionless  as  a  rampart. 

We  go  in  to  dinner;  gipsy  musicians  arrive  and 
play  for  us.  Late  at  night  when  the  garden  is 
quite  dark  we  go  out  again  to  the  targets ;  instead 
of  the  bottles  Vassili  has  ordered  a  row  of  lighted 
candles  to  be  set  up,  and  we  are  to  extinguish  them 
with  our  shots  without  knocking  them  down. 
There  is  much  noise  around  me ;  Vassili  is  dancing 
a  tarantelle  with  Ivan  Grigorievsky  on  the  lawn. 
Dr.  Stahl  and  Bozevsky  are  always  by  my  side. 
I  keep  on  shooting  at  the  candles,  but  they  spin 
round  before  my  confused  eyes  like  catharine- 
wheels ;  and  Stahl  laughs,  and  Bozevsky  sighs,  and 
the  gipsies  play.  .  .  . 


76  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

Suddenly  Tioka's  nurse  comes  hurriedly  down 
tlie  pathway  towards- me. 

"May  I  speak  to  your  ladyship  for  a  moment?" 

''Yes,  Elise.     What  is  it?" 

''Master  Tioka  cannot  go  to  sleep.  He  says 
you  have  forgotten  to  bid  him  good-night." 

I  put  down  my  rifle  and  follow  the  straight  small 
figure  of  Elise  Perrier  through  the  garden.  I 
hasten  after  her  into  the  house  and  upstairs  to  the 
nursery. 

Little  Tania  is  already  fast  asleep,  with  scarlet 
lips  parted  and  silken  hair  scattered  on  her  pillow. 
But  Tioka  is  sitting  up  in  his  cot  awaiting  me. 
His  bright  soft  eyes  wander  over  my  face,  my 
hair,  my  dress ;  his  innocent  gaze  seems  to  pierce 
me  like  a  fiery  sword.  He  holds  out  his  arms  to 
me  and  I  hide  my  flushed  face  on  his  childish 
breast. 

"Good-night,  mother  dear,"  he  whispers,  kiss- 
ing me  and  patting  my  face  with  his  small  hand. 
Then  he  adds,  with  a  funny  little  sniff  at  my  cheeks 
and  hair:  "You  smell  of  many  things — of  per- 
fume and  powder  and  cigarettes  and  wine  .  .  ." 

This  sequence  of  gay  words  on  the  childish  lips 
strikes  at  my  heart  like  so  many  daggers. 

"Hush,  darling,"  I  whisper,  taking  refuge  in 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  77 

those  frail  arms  as  in  a  haven  of  safety.  ''For- 
give— forgive  your  mother." 

But  he  does  not  know  what  there  is  to  forgive ; 
and  he  laughs  and  yawns  and  then  nestles  down 
in  his  pillow,  still  holding  tightly  to  my  hand. 

' '  Must  you  go  away  T '  he  sighs,  in  a  sleepy,  en- 
dearing voice. 

''No,  darling,  no.     I  will  stay  with  you." 

"Then  tell  me  the  poetry  about  the  Virgin 
Mary  coming  down  to  see  us  in  the  night." 

Holding  my  child's  hand  in  my  own,  I  begin 
softly : 

"When  little  children  sleep,  the  Virgin  Mary- 
Steps  with  white  feet  upon  the  crescent  moon  ..." 

But  already  Tioka  is  in  the  land  of  dreams. 


XIII 

The  whole  party  of  guests  stayed  at  our  house 
that  night.  Even  one  of  the  gipsy  musicians  was 
found  next  morning  asleep  on  the  sofa  in  the 
library. 

No  one  came  down  to  breakfast.  Only  Bozev- 
sky  got  up  early  and  went  for  a  gallop  on  the  hills. 

I  awoke  at  eight  o'clock  and  rang  the  bell. 
Elise  Perrier  came  in  and  opened  the  windows. 
The  fresh  April  breeze  blew  in  and  the  chirrup  of 
the  nests  greeted  me. 

* '  Elise,  is  the  morning  fine  ?  Can  the  mountains 
be  seen?" 

''Yes,  my  lady." 

"Elise,  when  you  see  the  mountains  do  you  not 
feel  homesick  for  Switzerland?" 

"Yes,  my  lady."  And  Elise  stooped  down  to 
set  out  my  slippers  and  to  hide  the  flush  that  rose 
to  her  face. 

"I  am  homesick,  too,  Elise.    I  am  homesick  I 

hardly  know  for  what — homesick  for  solitude  and 

peace." 

She  made  no  reply. 

78 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  79 

''Should  I  find  them  in  your  Switzerland,  do 
you  think?" 

Elise  Perrier  shakes  her  head  and  answers  in 
a  low  tone:  "No,  my  lady.  Swiss  homesickness 
and  Russian  homesickness  are  different." 

''In  what  way?" 

"We  Swiss  are  homesick  for — how  shall  I  say? 
— for  the  outside  things  we  are  far  away  from 
.  .  .  homesick  for  mountains  and  pine-trees  and 
villages.  But  Russians  are  homesick  for  what 
they  miss  in  their  own  hearts." 

"You  are  right,  Elise." 

Tioka  in  his  nightdress  followed  by  Tania 
sucking  the  head  of  her  favorite  rubber  doll  have 
run  gaily  in  and  embrace  me. 

"Are  we  going  to  Switzerland?"  cries  Tioka, 
who  has  overheard  what  we  were  saying.  "How 
nice !    When  do  we  start  ? ' ' 

"How  nice!  When  do  we  start?"  says  Tania, 
who  always  echoes  everything  her  brother  says. 

"I  like  to  be  always  going  away,"  adds  Tioka. 

And  Tania  repeats,  "I  like  to  be  always  going 
away. ' ' 

I  marvel  at  finding  in  these  two  children  of  mine, 
my  own  unrest  already  stirring,  like  a  butterfly 
poised  with  quivering  wings  on  the  dawning 
flower  of  their  souls. 


80  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

I  went  down  alone  into  the  garden  and  entered 
the  grove,  where  the  sunshine  only  penetrates 
with  mild  rays  of  almost  lunar  whiteness.  The 
grass  under  my  feet  was  studded  with  periwinkles, 
their  prim,  pert  faces  lifted  to  the  sky;  tenuous 
ferns  unfolded  their  embroidered  scrolls,  and 
masses  of  gentle  wild  violets,  conscious  of  their 
pallor  and  their  scentlessness,  drooped  shyly  in 
the  shade. 

In  the  branches  overhead  mid  hidden  birds  tried 
their  new  springtide  voices  in  soft  modulations 
and  trills,  or  in  long-drawn  contralto  notes  of 
liquescent  sweetness.  Thus  April  spoke  to  me 
in  gentle  voices.  With  a  sudden  overwhelming 
longing  to  be  nearer  to  the  very  soul  of  spring,  I 
knelt  on  the  grass  and  buried  my  face  in  the  cool 
leaves  and  blossoms,  bidding  my  heart  be  pure 
and  cool  as  they. 

On  my  homeward  way  I  passed  the  targets. 
The  servants  had  put  everything  in  order — pistols, 
rifles  and  cartridges;  and  a  fresh  row  of  bottles 
seemed  to  await  with  glassy  eye  the  shots  of  the 
amateur  marksmen.  With  a  deep  sense  of  humil- 
iation I  remembered  the  feverish  agitations  of 
the  previous  day,  and  once  more  I  said  to  my- 
self: "Henceforward  may  my  life  be  serene  and 
pure." 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  81 

A  gay  voice  rang  out  close  behind  me,  and 
startled  me  from  my  reverie. 

*'Lady  Marie,  good  morrow!"  It  was  Bozev- 
sky,  who,  clicking  his  spurred  heels  together, 
saluted  me  with  a  radiant  smile.  His  morning 
canter  seemed  to  have  given  him  an  added  touch 
of  beauty  and  of  daring ;  his  fair  hair  gleamed  in 
the  sunshine,  his  smile  was  reckless  and  resplen- 
dent. 

I  bowed  without  speaking  and  attempted  to 
pursue  my  way  to  the  house,  but  he  took  my  hand 
and  detained  me. 

*^Why  go  in?  Everybody  is  still  asleep. 
Come  now,"  he  urged,  with  a  frank  engaging 
smile,  ''stay  here  for  awhile  and  practise  at  the 
targets. ' ' 

So  saying  he  chose  a  rifle  and  loaded  it.  Then 
he  held  it  out  to  me.  I  took  it  from  him  and  put 
it  to  my  shoulder.  I  aimed,  carefully  and  was 
about  to  press  the  trigger  when  suddenly  Bozev- 
sky,  with  a  lightning  movement,  put  out  his  hand 
and  pressed  his  palm  against  the  muzzle  of  my 
gun. 

"Wait!"  he  cried,  with  a  wild,  extravagant 
laugh.  "Wait  a  moment!  Before  you  press 
the  trigger  I  want  you  to  say — 'Alexis,  I  love 
you!'  " 


82  liABIE,  TARNOWSKA 

''You  are  mad!"  I  exclaimed.  ''Take  away 
your  hand!" 

"No.  First  you  must  say — 'Alexis,  I  love 
you.'  " 

I  felt  a  hot  flush  rise  to  my  brow.  ' '  Take  away 
your  hand!"  I  repeated  and  looked  steadily  at 
him. 

He  did  not  move. 

"Take  it  away,  I  implore  you!" 

Still  he  never  moved,  and  I  could  see  that  hand 
stopping  the  muzzle  of  my  gun — a  long,  slender 
hand  with  fingers  separate  and  outstretched,  and 
I  felt  almost  as  if  I  were  under  the  influence  of 
some  hallucination.  It  was  not  only  his  hand  that 
I  saw — ^I  seemed  in  a  kind  of  frenzy  to  see  the 
hands  of  all  men  outstretched  before  me,  ready 
to  grasp  me,  to  crush  me,  to  beat  me  down.  Doubt- 
less a  wave  of  madness  swept  over  me;  a  con- 
vulsive spasm  shook  my  wrist — and  the  gun  went 
off.  I  saw  the  long,  lithe  hand  drop  like  some 
wounded  creature. 

With  a  cry  I  let  the  rifle  fall,  and  covered  my 
face.  But  Bozevsky  had  sprung  upon  me,  and 
with  his  other  hand  seized  both  mine  and  pressed 
them  down.  He  was  as  white  as  death.  "You 
little  tigress,"  he  gasped.  Then,  as  I  was  about 
to  cry  out  again,  he  covered  my  mouth  w^ith  his 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  83 

shattered  hand,  and  I  felt  the  blood  gush  over  my 
face. 

What  distant  heritage  of  madness  broke  upon 
us  at  that  moment?  What  primitive  frenzy 
lashed  us  together  in  a  fierce  embrace?  I  cannot 
tell.  All  I  know  is  that  from  that  hour  I  was  his 
— tamed,  vanquished,  broken  in  spirit,  and  yet 
glad.  He  was  the  first,  the  last,  the  only  lover 
of  my  devastated  youth,  and  by  his  side  the  brief 
springtime  of  my  happiness  flowered  and  died. 
When  the  fearful  death  that  was  so  soon  to  lay 
him  low  came  upon  him,  when  I  saw  him  fall 
at  my  feet  shot  by  Vassili — my  reason  gave  way. 
The  rest  of  my  life  lies  behind  me  like  a  somber 
nightmare  landscape,  through  which  I  wander, 
groping  in  the  dark,  stumbling  forward  on  my  way 
to  perdition  .  .  . 

Yet  sometimes  I  dream  that  it  is  all  not  true, 
that  he  still  lives,  that  one  day  the  door  of  my 
cell  will  open,  and  the  lover  of  my  youth  appear 
to  me  again.  I  shall  see  him  standing  on  the 
threshold,  a  halo  of  sunshine  lighting  his  fair  hair, 
like  some  young  martyr-saint  come  to  deliver  me 
from  my  bondage.  The  hand  I  wounded  will  be 
filled  with  roses,  and  his  clear  voice  will  call  me  by 
my  name. 

Then  rising  from  this  gloomy  prison  bench  I 


84  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

shall  move  to  meet  him.  Shame  and  crime  and 
captivity  will  fall  away  from  me  like  a  dark  and 
worn-out  cloak. 

Free  and  fair  as  in  those  distant  April  days  in 
which  he  loved  me,  with  white,  winged  footsteps 
I  shall  follow  him. 


XIV 

Suddenly,  almost  from  one  day  to  another, 
Vassili  grew  jealous.  When  I  had  adored  him 
he  had  neglected  and  forsaken  me.  Now  that  he 
feared  to  lose  me  he  was  inconsolable. 

''You  and  Tioka  are  very  much  alike,"  I  said 
to  him  one  day  when  we  were  all  at  luncheon, 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Vassili,  patting  his 
little  son's  fair  head  and  contemplating  the  small 
face,  which  at  that  moment  was  making  a  terrible 
grimace  over  its  food.  "What  makes  you  say 
so?" 

"You  shall  see."  I  leaned  over  to  the  child. 
"Tioka,  my  darling,  won't  you  eat  your  nice  din- 
ner?" 

"No!"  said  Tioka  with  great  decision. 

"Come,  now,  darling,  eat  your  nice  soup,"  and 
I  held  a  spoonful  to  his  lips. 

"No,"  said  Tioka,  turning  his  face  away. 

"Why  not,  dear?    Don't  you  like  it?" 

"No.     It's  nasty." 

"Well,  then,"  I  said,  putting  down  the  spoon, 

we  will  give  it  to  the  farmer's  little  boy." 

85 


u 


86  :maeie  taexowska 

"Xo!  no!"  cried  Tioka,  and  he  qnickly  de- 
vonred  the  sonp  in  large  spoonfuls. 

Vassili  langhed.  "He  is  quite  right.  His 
soup  is  not  for  the  farmer's  little  boy.  To  each 
one  his  own  soup,  isn't  that  so,  Tioka!" 

"Xo,"  said  Tioka. 

"TVhy  'no'?    You  should  say  *yes.'  " 

*'Xo,"  declared  Tioka  doggedly.  "This  is  my 
*no'  day." 

"Your  uliat?"  exclaimed  his  father. 

"Mv  day  for  saving  'no,'  "  announced  Tioka 
with  great  decision. 

His  father  was  much  amused.  "I  also  shall 
have  my  'no'  days,"  he  declared.  "And  I  shall 
begin  at  once.  To-day,  Mura,  we  shall  receive 
no  visitors." 

"But,  Vassili,"  I  protested,  "we  must  see  the 
Grigorievskys ;  we  have  invited  them  to  dinner." 

"Xo,"  said  my  husband. 

"And  Semenzoff.    And  Bozevsky." 

"Xo,"  he  repeated. 

*  •'  Do  you  really  mean  that  we  are  not  to  receive 
them?" 

"Xo,"  he  reiterated.  "This  is  my  'no'  day." 
And  the  reception  for  that  evening  was  actually 
put  off.  The  jest  seemed  highly  entertaining  to 
Vassili.    I  heard  him  laughing  to  himself  as  he 


]\IARIE  TARNOWSlvA  87 

went  downstairs;  and  in  the  days  tliat  followed 
he  frequently  repeated  it. 

Shortly  afterwards  he  took  us  all  back  to  Kieff 
and  there  he  had  many  "no"  days.  In  particular 
he  would  not  let  Bozevskj'  visit  us ;  and  more  than 
a  month  passed  without  my  seeing  him. 

At  last  it  happened  that  the  Stahls  invited  us 
to  a  ball,  and  Vassili,  who  chanced  to  be  in  a  good 
temper,  accepted.  I  knew  I  should  meet  Bozev- 
sky  there,  and  at  the  mere  thought  of  seeing  him 
again  I  trembled  with  joy  and  fear. 

Elise  Perrier  dressed  me  in  a  filmy  gossamer 
gown  of  soft  opalescent  tints,  and  fastened 
round  my  neck  the  famous  O'Eourke  pearls — 
those  pearls  which,  according  to  family  traditions, 
had  once  decorated  the  slender  neck  of  Mary 
Stuart. 

As  Vassili  put  me  into  the  troika  he  was  all 
kindness  and  amiability;  he  wrapped  me  closely 
in  the  furs,  and  then  took  his  seat  beside  me, 
muffling  himself  up  to  his  nose  in  the  bearskins. 
The  horses  started  and  we  were  off  like  the 
wind. 

During  the  drive  tender  and  kindly  feelings 
towards  Vassili  filled  my  heart.  I  said  to  myself 
that  perhaps  he  was  after  all  not  wholly  to 
blame  for  his  faults  and  follies.    He,  too,  was 


88  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

so  young;  perhaps  if  I  had  been  less  of  a  child 
at  the  time  of  my  marriage  I  should  have  known 
how  to  make  him  love  me  more.  And,  after  all, 
were  we  not  still  in  time  to  reshape  our  lives! 
What  if  we  were  to  go  far  away  from  Kieff,  far 
from  St.  Petersburg,  and  try  to  take  up  the  thread 
of  our  broken  idyll  again?  My  hand  sought  his. 
He  grasped  it  and  held  it  warmly  clasped  mider 
the  rug  without  turning  towards  me;  I  could 
see  his  eyes  shining  under  his  fur  cap  as  he  gazed 
straight  before  him,  while  we  sped  over  the  silent 
snow.  During  that  drive,  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart,  I  forgave  him  all  his  transgressions 
and  silently  craved  forgiveness  for  mine.  Already 
I  seemed  to  see  myself  with  him  and  the  children 
and  Aunt  Sonia  happily  secluded  in  some  smiling 
rose-clad  mansion  in  Italy.  He  would  take  up 
the  study  of  his  music  again,  perhaps  he  would 
compose,  as  he  had  often  spoken  of  doing — while 
I,  seated  at  his  feet,  would  read  the  Italian  poets 
that  I  loved,  raising  my  eyes  now  and  then  to  con- 
template the  motionless  blue  wave  of  the  distant 
Apennines  .  .  . 

But  the  troika  had  stopped,  and  Vassili  sprang 
out  upon  the  snow.  Through  the  illuminated 
windows  the  tzigane  music  poured  forth  its  waves 
of    sensuous    melody — and    alas!    the    rhythmic 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  89 

swing  of  it  swept  away,  as  in  a  whirlwind,  the 
peaceful  dreams  of  Italy,  of  the  rose-clad  mansion 
and  the  Italian  poets. 

While  the  servants  were  taking  our  cloaks  and 
snowshoes  from  us  I  whispered  hurriedly  to 
Vassili:  *' Dearest,  be  good  to-night.  Do  not 
drink  much. ' ' 

"Why  not?  What  a  strange  idea!"  he  said; 
and  we  passed  into  the  overheated,  overlighted 
rooms. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  ballroom  some  thirty 
tziganes,  women  and  men,  in  their  picturesque 
costumes  were  making  music.  The  men  played 
and  the  women  sang.  The  dancing  couples 
whirled  round  in  the  scent-laden  air. 

Doctor  Stahl's  wife,  a  kindly  German  woman, 
received  us  with  amiable  smiles;  Stahl  himself 
greeted  us  with  excited  effusiveness.  He  was 
quite  pale  with  two  red  spots  on  the  summit  of 
his  cheeks.  I  was  struck  anew  by  his  strange 
air  of  intoxication,  for  I  knew  he  never  touched 
wine.  Immediately,  from  the  end  of  the  room 
Bozevsky  came  hastening  to  meet  us,  superb  in 
his  full  uniform — blue  tunic  and  scarlet  belt. 

"Hail  Fata  Morgana!"  he  cried.  "Give  me 
this  dance,"  and  he  put  his  arm  round  my  waist. 
But  I  drew  back. 


90  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

''Alas,  Prince  Cliarming,  I  dare  not." 

He  turned  pale;  then  lie  bowed,  twirled  on  his 
heels  and  moved  away.  He  did  not  come  near  me 
again  until  late  in  the  evening.  I  saw  him  sur- 
rounded by  women,  who  danced  with  him,  smiling 
into  his  face,  floating  with  languid  grace  in  his  arms. 

I  shrank  into  a  corner  of  the  vast  room  where 
tall  plants  and  flowers  screened  me  from  the 
dancers. 

<  <  Why,  what  are  you  doing  hidden  here  ? ' '  cried 
Stahl,  coming  up  to  me.  His  pupils  were  nar- 
rower than  ever  and  his  breath  came  and  went 
in  short  gasps.  He  bent  over  me  and  scanned 
my  face.  "What  are  your  thoughts.  Countess 
Marie?" 
y     "I  have  no  thoughts,"  I  replied  sadly. 

"Then  I  will  give  you  one,"  said  he  laughing; 
"a  blithe  and  comforting  thought — think  that  a 
hundred  years  hence  we  shall  all  be  dead!" 

"True,"  I  answered,  and  a  wave  of  unspeakable 
melancholy  invaded  my  soul.  "We  may,  perhaps, 
be  dead  even  fifty  years  hence." 

"Or  thirty,"  laughed  Stahl. 

"Or  twenty,"  I  sighed,  in  even  deeper  despond- 
ency. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Stahl.  "Twenty  years  hence 
you  will  still  be  a  charming  matron  getting  on 


MARIE  TARNOWSICA  91 

towards  middle-age."  And,  as  some  one  was  call- 
ing liim,  lie  turned  away  and  left  me. 

His  words  sank  into  my  heart,  heavy  and  searing 
as  molten  lead.  How  short,  how  short  was  life! 
How  the  years  flew  past!  How  brief  were  the 
wings  of  youth  and  happiness !  I  raised  my  eyes 
— doubtless  they  were  full  of  sadness — and  I 
saw  that  Bozevsky  at  the  far  end  of  the  room 
was  looking  at  me.  Several  brilliantly  attired 
women  were  laughing  and  talking  to  him,  but  ab- 
ruptly, without  excuse  or  explanation,  he  left  them 
and  crossed  the  room  to  where  I  sat. 

The  tziganes  were  playing  a  wild,  nerve-thrill- 
ing czarda.  Without  a  word  Bozevsky  put  his 
arm  round  me  and  drew  me  into  the  dance. 

The  music  went  faster  and  faster,  wilder  and 
ever  more  wild. 

Light  as  air  I  swung  round  in  Bozevsky 's  arm. 
I  could  have  wished  to  dance  thus  forever — dance, 
dance  to  the  very  brink  of  life  and,  still  danc- 
ing, to  plunge  over  into  the  abyss  of  death. 

As  we  whirled  round  I  perceived  that  Vassili 
was  watching  us.  He  was  drinking  champagne 
with  vodka  in  it  and  was  laughing  loudly  while 
he  spoke  to  Stahl;  but  his  eyes  never  left  me  as 
I  swept  round  the  ballroom  with  Bozevsky.  His 
gaze  alarmed  me.    I  was  dizzy  and  out  of  breath, 


92  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

but  I  did  not  dare  to  stop  dancing  for  fear  of 
Vassili.  I  danced  and  danced,  breathless  and 
distraught ;  I  felt  my  heart  beating  furiously,  puls- 
ing with  the  mad  rapidity,  the  battering  throb  of 
a  motor-cycle  at  full  speed — and  still  I  danced 
and  danced  on,  while  the  ballroom,  the  guests, 
the  tziganes  spun  round  and  round  before  my 
blurred  eyes  .  .  . 

Vassili 's  gaze  still  followed  me. 


XV 

Suddenly  my  strength  failed  me.  The  room 
seemed  to  be  paved  with  water;  the  floor  yielded 
and  undulated  under  my  feet;  the  motor-cycle 
pulsing  in  my  breast  stopped  dead.  Then  I  felt 
Bozevsky's  arm  sustain  me  as  I  fell  forward 
on  his  breast.  Everything  whirled,  darkened — 
vanished. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  I  was  seated  near  the 
window;  the  dancers  crowded  round  me.  Stahl 
was  bending  over  me  with  a  small  shining  instru- 
ment in  his  hand.    It  was  a  hypodermic  syringe. 

I  shrank  back  in  terror.     ' '  No,  no ! "  I  cried. 

Seeing  that  I  had  recovered  my  senses  Vassili, 
who  stood  behind  me,  laid  an  iron  hand  on  my 
bare  shoulder. 

''Come,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  and  brutal  voice. 
"Come  at  once." 

"Where  toT'  I  rose  trembling  to  my  feet.  I 
still  felt  dizzy  and  weak,  and  scarcely  knew  where 
I  was. 

"Home,"  said  Vassili,  bending  over  me  with  a 
terrible  look.  His  face  was  so  close  to  mine  that 
I  could  feel  his  breath  upon  me,  hot  and  laden 

93 


94  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

with'  that  subtle  sweetish  exhalation  of  ether  that 
vodka  leaves  behind  it.  ''The  dance  is  over,"  he 
muttered.  ''It  is  over,  it  is  over."  I  noticed  his 
clenched  fists;  and  I  was  afraid.  A  deep  silence 
had  fallen  on  the  entire  room.  "Come!"  he  re- 
peated in  a  tone  that  made  me  quake. 

I  shrank  back  in  terror.  Then  Vassili  put  out 
his  hand  and  seized  my  pearl  necklace;  it  broke 
in  his  grasp.  The  milky  gems  fell  to  the  ground 
and  rolled  away  in  all  directions ;  the  guests,  both 
men  and  women,  stooped  down  to  search  for  them 
and  pick  them  up. 

But  now  Bozevsky  had  taken  a  step  forward, 
and  stood,  haughty  and  aggressive,  in  front  of 
Vassili.  He  uttered  a  brief  word  in  a  low 
voice. 

Vassili  turned  upon  him  with  livid  countenance. 
"Insolent  scoundrel!"  he  cried,  wildly  searching 
his  pockets  for  a  weapon;  then  in  a  frenzy  he 
turned  on  the  awe-stricken  assembly :  "Go  away, 
everybody!"  he  shouted.  "Stahl,  turn  out  the 
lights.  We  are  going  to  have  a  game  of  blind 
man's  buff,  the  Uhlan  and  I.  A  game  of  blind 
man's  buff  in  the  dark!  Quick,  Stahl,  give  us  a 
couple  of  revolvers.  Send  all  these  people  away 
and  turn  out  the  lights." 


MARIE  TARNOWSIO.  95 

He  was  beside  himself  with  vodka  and  with 
wrath. 

Bozevsky  still  faced  him,  calm  and  unmoved. 
*'^Vhy  should  it  be  in  the  dark,  Count  Tar- 
nowsky?  Why  not  in  the  light  of  day— at  ten 
paces?" 

''No!"  roared  Vassili.  *'I '11  kill  you  in  the 
dark,  evil  beast  that  you  are.  I  '11  slaughter  you 
like  a  wild  beast  in  the  dark ! ' ' 

I  never  knew  how  we  succeeded  in  getting  him 
out  into  the  troika,  but  at  last  the  feat  was  ac- 
complished, and  he  drove  off  with  Madame  Grigo- 
rievska  and  Semenzoff,  the  only  two  people  who 
had  any  influence  over  him.  I  followed  in  another 
sleigh,  alone  with  Dr.  Stahl,  who  during  the  entire 
drive  panted  and  shivered  beside  me,  as  if  in  the 
throes  of  some  fierce  physical  agony. 

Through  the  starry  calm  of  the  night,  while  the 
sleighs  glided  silently  over  the  snow,  we  could 
hear  Vassili 's  strident  and  drunken  voice  still 
roaring:  ''Blind  man's  buff  with  the  officer! 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  In  the  dark— bing  bang.  Blind 
man's  buff!" 

The  scandal  in  Kieff  was  enormous.  The  whole 
town  spoke  of  nothing  else.    All  the  women  sided 


96  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

with  Vassili,  and  all  the  men  with  me.  As  for 
Vassili,  he  cared  nothing  for  the  opinion  of  either. 
He  came  and  went  with  lowering  brows,  never 
speaking  either  to  me  or  to  the  children. 

I  was  unspeakably  frightened  and  unhappy. 
At  last,  one  evening,  unable  to  endure  the  strain 
of  his  silence  any  longer,  and  praying  God  to  give 
me  courage,  I  went  tremblingly  and  knocked  at 
his  study  door. 

He  said  ''Come  in,"  and  I  entered. 

He  was  standing  by  the  window,  smoking,  and 
he  turned  upon  me  a  cold  vindictive  eye. 

"Vassili" — my  voice  trembled^" Vassili,  don't 
be  angry  with  me  any  more.  Forgive  me.  I  did 
not  mean  to  offend  you.  I  did  not  mean — "  I 
burst  into  tears. 

He  seemed  somewhat  moved  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  me  without  speaking. 

I  grasped  it  eagerly.  He  continued  to  smoke 
and  look  out  of  the  window,  while  I  stood  awk- 
wardly beside  him,  holding  his  hand  and  not  know- 
ing what  to  say. 

Perhaps  my  silence  pleased  him,  for  soon  I  felt 
him  press  my  trembling  fingers  more  closely. 
Looking  timidly  up  into  his  face  I  saw  that  his 
lips  were  quivering. 

"Vassili,"  I  whispered. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  97 

He  turned  to  me  abruptly.  ' '  Let  us  go  away, ' ' 
he  said,  ' '  Mura,  let  us  go  away ! ' ' 

''Where?"  I  asked,  overcome  with  sudden  fear. 

''Far  away  from  here,  far  away  from  Russia. 
I  cannot  live  in  this  accursed  country  any  longer. ' ' 
And  Vassili  let  go  my  hand  in  order  to  clench  his 
fists. 

"I  had  thought  of  it,  too,"  I  said  unsteadily. 
And  in  a  low  voice  I  told  him  my  thoughts  of  the 
rose-clad  house  in  Italy,  my  dreams  of  an  azure 
exile  in  that  beauteous  land,  alone  with  him  and 
the  children. 

"Mura!  Mura!"  he  said,  taking  my  face 
between  his  hands  and  gazing  deeply  into  my  eyes. 
' '  Tell  me— is  it  not  too  late  T ' 

Was  it  too  late? 

In  my  soul  my  unlawful  passion  for  Bozevsky 
rose  like  a  giant  wave,  towered  over  me,  enveloped 
and  submerged  me.  Then — then  to  the  eyes  of 
my  spirit  there  came  the  vision  of  my  children, 
of  a  flower-filled  Italian  garden,  of  peace  recon- 
quered and  deliverance  from  evil.  "No,  Vassili, 
no.    It  is  not  too  late!" 

With  a  sigh  I  lay  my  cheek  against  his  shoulder 
and  bowed  my  face  upon  his  breast. 

Before  our  departure  from  Russia,  in  order  not 
to  leave  ill-feeling  or  evil  talk  behind  us,  it  was 


98  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

decided  that  Vassili  and  Bozevsky  should  meet 
and  be  reconciled. 

The  Stahls  and  Grigorievskys  gladly  undertook 
to  organize  an  afternoon  reception  at  which  we 
were  to  take  leave  of  all  our  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances. After  that  there  would  be  a  theater  party 
at  the  opera,  and,  finally,  the  more  intimate  of 
our  friends  were  to  be  the  guests  of  Bozevsky 
himself  at  a  supper  at  the  Grand  Hotel.  There 
we  were  to  say  farewell  to  one  another  for  many 
years,  perhaps  forever. 

In  spite  of  the  burning  desire  which  drew  me 
towards  Bozevsky,  I  had  honorably  kept  my  part 
of  the  agreement  and  had  refused  to  see  him  for 
even  an  instant  before  the  appointed  day. 

Vassili  took  the  necessary  steps  to  get  our  pass- 
ports and  every  preparation  was  made  for  our 
final  departure  from  Russia. 

And  now  the  eve  of  our  journey  had  come — ^the 
afternoon  reception  was  over;  and  this  was  the 
fatal  evening  which  was  to  mark  the  supreme  and 
ultimate  hour  of  my  happiness. 

Satins  and  jewels  decked  my  aching  heart; 
flowers  garlanded  my  ringleted  hair;  I  wanted 
Alexis  to  see  me  for  the  last  time  looking  my 
fairest.  I  longed  to  remain  forever  In  his  mem- 
ory a  loved  and  radiant  vision. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  99 

''You  are  dazzlingly  beautiful,"  said  my  cousin 
Vera  to  me,  as  soon  as  I  entered  the  room,  survey- 
ing me  from  top  to  toe.  "I  can  quite  understand 
why  every  one  is  crazy  about  you." 

I  was  immediately  surrounded  by  all  our  most 
intimate  friends,  who  lamented  in  every  key  our 
resolve  to  leave  Russia. 

''Without  you,  Kieff  will  be  empty.  It  will  be 
like  a  ring  which  has  lost  its  brightest  gem." 

I  smiled  and  sighed,  feeling  both  gratified  and 
mournful. 

Who  would  have  thought  that  after  this  evening 
all  those  who  now  surrounded  me  with  flattering 
words  would  pass  me  by  without  a  greeting,  would 
turn  from  me  as  from  some  vile  and  tainted  crea- 
ture? 

Bozevsky,  pallid  and  stem,  came  to  me,  and 
bowed  low  as  he  kissed  my  hand. 

*'Ave!  Ave  .  .  .  Maria!"  he  said.  Then  he 
raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  me  long  and  fixedly. 
Despair  was  so  clearly  written  on  his  countenance, 
that  I  felt  afraid  lest  Vassili  should  notice  it; 
Alexis  read  the  fear  in  my  eyes,  and  laughed. 
*'Do  you  know  what  I  believe?"  he  said. 

I  looked  at  him  without  understanding. 

"I  believe,"  he  continued  in  scornful  tones, 
*'that  I  am  in  a  trap." 


100  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

**A  trap?  What  do  yon  mean?"  I  gazed 
qnestioningly  into  his  face. 

''Yes,  yes,  a  trap,"  said  he  with  a  cynical  laugh. 
Then  in  a  tone  that  seemed  in  keeping  with  the 
frivolous  atmosphere  that  surrounded  us : 

"Countess,"  he  continued,  "has  it  ever  hap- 
pened to  you  to  go  wrong  in  some  well-known  quo- 
tation? To  begin,  for  instance,  with  one  author, 
and  to  end  with  another?" 

"I  do  not  understand,"  I  stammered,  perplexed 
by  the  strangeness  of  his  manner.  "What — ^what 
do  you  mean?" 

Vassili  was  approaching,  and  Alexis  with  a 
scornful  laugh  raised  his  voice  slightly  as  he  spoke. 
"Because  to-night,"  he  said,  "a  misquotation  of 
that  kind  keeps  ringing  through  my  brain.  ''Ave, 
Maria!  .  .  .  Morituri  te  salutant!" 

Vassili  stood  beside  us  and  heard  the  words  with 
a  puzzled  smile. 

"Morituri?"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  to 
Bozevsky  with  a  frank  and  friendly  gesture. 
"Moriturif    Indeed  I  hope  not." 

Bozevsky  took  his  hand  and  looked  him  in  the 
face.  Vassili  returned  his  gaze;  then,  with  an 
impulsive  gesture,  in  true  Eussian  fashion,  my 
husband  bent  forward  and  kissed  him  on  both 
cheeks. 


JMARIE  TARNOWSKA  101 

No!  no,  it  was  not  a  trap!  From  the  depths 
of  my  broken  heart,  from  my  inmost  conscious- 
ness, there  springs  up  this  protest  on  behalf  of 
him  who  on  that  fatal  evening  wrecked  my  life, 
I  know  that  it  was  an  impulse  of  his  fervent  heart 
that  impelled  Vassili  to  open  his  arms  to  the  man 
whom  an  hour  before  he  had  hated — and  whom  an 
hour  later  he  slew. 

No ;  it  was  not  a  trap. 


XVI 

Doubtless  that  evening  I  was  beautiful.  Dur- 
ing the  supper  party  at  the  Grand  Hotel  I  felt 
that  I  diffused  around  me  an  atmosphere  of  more 
subtle  intoxication  than  the  music  or  the  wines. 
Placed  between  Vassili  and  Stahl  I  laughed  and 
laughed  in  a  fever  of  rapturous  gaiety.  I  was  ex- 
cited and  overwrought. 

Bozevsky  sat  facing  me.  As  I  glanced  at  his 
proud,  passionate  face,  I  said  in  my  heart:  ''To- 
morrow you  will  see  him  no  more.  But  this 
evening  he  is  here ;  you  see  him,  pale  for  the  love 
of  you,  thrilled  by  your  presence.  Do  not  think 
of  to-morrow.     To-morrow  is  far  away!" 

So  I  laughed  and  laughed  while  the  rhythmic 
charm  of  waltzes  played  on  muted  strings  wrought 
upon  my  senses,  swaying  me  towards  an  unreal 
world,  a  world  of  transcendent  passion  and  in- 
comparable joys. 

Stahl,  seated  at  my  right  hand,  was  flushed  and 
elated,  but  still  drew  the  hurried  sibilant  breaths 
I  had  so  often  noticed  in  him.  Vassili  seemed  to 
have  fallen  in  love  with  me  anew.    He  murmured 

102 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  103 

rapturous  words  into  my  ear.  '' To-morrow  you 
shall  be  mine,  mine  only,  out  of  reach  of  all  others, 
beyond  the  sight  and  the  desire  of  all  these  people 
— whose  necks  I  should  like  to  wring."  And  he 
drank  his  Clicquot  looking  at  me  with  kindling 
eyes. 

''Vassili,"  I  whispered  imploringly,  '*do  not 
drink  any  more." 

''Don't  you  wish  me  to?"  he  asked,  turning 
to  me  with  his  glass  of  champagne  in  his  hand. 
''Don't  you  wish  it?  Well— there!"  He  flung 
the  glass  full  of  blonde  wine  behind  him  over  his 
shoulder.  The  thin  crystal  chalice  was  shattered 
into  a  thousand  pieces. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Vassili?  What  are  you 
doing?"  cried  Grigorievsky.  "Are  you  playing 
the  Kingof  Thule?" 

' '  Precisely, ' '  laughed  Vassili.  * '  Was  he  not  the 
paragon  of  all  lovers,  who  chose  to  die  of  thirst 
in  order  to  follow  his  adored  one  to  the  grave?" 

And  somewhat  uncertainly  he  quoted : 

"Then  did  he  fling  his  chalice 
Into  the  surging  main, 
He  watched  it  sink  and  vanish — 
And  never  drank  again." 

"Here  's  to  the  King  of  Thule  I"  cried  one  of 
the  guests.    And  they  all  drank  Vassili 's  health. 


1D4  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

Bozevsky  had  sprung  to  his  feet;  his  eyes 
gleamed  strangely.  ''You  may  be  the  King  of 
Thule,  Tarnowsky,"  he  cried  in  a  mocking  tone, 
''but  I  am  the  knight  Olaf.  You  know  the 
legend?"  His  clear  insolent  eyes  surveyed  the 
guests  provocatively.  "Olaf — you  remember — 
was  condemned  to  death  for  daring  to  love  the 
king's  daughter.  He  was  at  his  last  banquet. 
'Take  heed,  Olaf,'  said  the  king.  'The  headsman 
stands  at  the  door!'  'Let  him  stay  there,  sire, 
while  I  bid  farewell  to  life  in  a  last  toast ! '  And 
standing  up — just  as  I  stand  here — he  raised  his 
glass,  as  I  raise  mine : 

"I  drink  to  the  earth,  I  drink  to  the  sky, 

I  drink  to  the  sea  and  the  shore; 
I  drink  to  the  days  that  I  have  seen, 

And  the  days  I  shall  see  no  more; 
I  drink  to  the  King  who  has  sentenced  me, 

And  the  Headsman  at  the  door. 

"I  bless  the  joys  that  I  have  had 
And  the  joys  that  I  have  missed; 
I  bless  the  eyes  that  have  smiled  on  me 
And  the  lips  that  I  have  kissed !" 

Here  Bozevsky  turned  and  looked  straight  at 
me: 

"To  thy  red  lips  that  I  have  kissed 
I  raise  this  cup  of  wine, 


MARIE  TAENOWSKA  105 

I  bless  thy  radiant  loveliness 

That  made  my  life  divine, 
And  1  bless  the  hour  that  brings  me  death 

For  the  hour  that  thou  wert  mine !" 

He  uttered  these  words  in  a  loud  voice,  with 
his  daring  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  mine;  then  he 
raised  his  glass  and  drained  it. 

Vassili  had  sprung  to  his  feet.  But  instantly 
Stahl  was  beside  him,  speaking  rapidly,  while 
Grigorievsky  exclaimed: 

''The  sleighs  are  waiting.  It  is  time  to  go 
home ! ' ' 

Amid  nervous  and  hurried  farewells  the  perilous 
moment  passed  and  the  danger  was  averted.  We 
all  hastened  to  our  sleighs;  my  cousin  Vera  and 
Madame  Grigorievska  were  beside  me;  Stahl  and 
Grigorievsky  had  each  with  an  air  of  easy  friend- 
liness taken  my  husband  by  the  arm. 

''Good-by!  Good-by!  Bon  voyage!  Good- 
by!"  The  last  farewells  had  been  exchanged. 
The  impatient  horses  were  shaking  their  bells  in 
the  icy  night  air.  Vera  had  already  taken  her 
place  in  the  sleigh,  and  I  was  about  to  step  in  be- 
side her,  when  I  saw  Bozevsky  striding  rapidly 
towards  me.  He  passed  in  front  of  my  husband, 
who  was  standing  near  the  second  sleigh  with 
Stahl  and  Grigorievsky,  and  came  straight  to  me. 


106  MARIE  TAENOWSKA 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
despair. 

''So  it  is  all  over — all  over!"  he  said.  ''And 
this  is  good-by!" 

His  voice  broke,  and  he  bent  his  fair  head  over 
my  hand,  crushing  my  fingers  in  his  feverish 
clasp. 

At  that  instant  the  report  of  a  shot  rang  out, 
followed  by  a  mad  outburst  of  laughter  from 
Vassili.  I  saw  the  horses  of  the  sleigh  plunge 
and  rear. 

Bozevsky,  still  clasping  my  hand,  wrenched  him- 
self upright;  a  convulsive  shiver  passed  through 
him,  and  his  head  jerked  backwards  with  a  strange, 
wooden  movement  like  that  of  a  broken  doll — then 
with  a  shrill  burst  of  laughter  which  showed  all 
his  teeth,  he  fell  forward  at  my  feet. 

With  a  cry  I  bent  over  him,  and  I  felt  a  splash 
of  blood  on  my  face.  It  spurted  forth  like  the 
jet  of  a  fountain  from  the  side  of  his  neck.  Once 
again  my  hands,  my  dress  were  covered  with  his 
blood — I  thought  I  was  in  a  dream.  Every  one 
had  come  rushing  up.  Now  they  raised  him.  I 
saw  Stahl  snatch  a  white  scarf  from  some  one's 
shoulders  and  wind  it  round  and  round  the 
wounded  neck,  and  immediately  a  dark  stain  ap- 
peared on  the  scarf  and  slowly  widened. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  107 

Supported  by  Stalil,  Bozevsky  stared  about  him 
with  haggard  eyes,  until  his  gaze  met  mine. 

A  quiver  passed  over  his  face.  ''I  bless  the 
hour — "  he  gasped.  Then  a  gush  of  blood  came 
from  his  mouth,  and  he  was  silent. 


xvn 

BozEvsKY  was  carried  to  his  rooni  and  the 
manager  and  servants  of  the  Grand  Hotel 
thronged  in  murmuring  consternation  round  his 
door.  A  Swedish  doctor,  staying  at  the  hotel,  was 
summoned  in  haste.  He  appeared  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  with  Stahl's  assistance  carefully 
dressed  and  bound  up  the  deep  double  wound 
caused  by  the  bullet,  which  had  passed  through 
the  left  side  of  Bozevsky's  neck  and  come  out  be- 
neath his  chin. 

Trembling  and  weeping  I  followed  the  sinister 
procession,  and  with  Cousin  Vera  and  Madame 
Stahl  entered  Bozevsky's  room.  Now  I  stood, 
silently  praying,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Bozevsky 
sunken  in  his  pillow,  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his 
head  and  neck  in  bandages,  looked  as  if  he  were 
already  dead. 

He  suddenly  opened  his  eyes,  and  his  gaze 
wandered  slowly  from  side  to  side  until  it  rested 
on  me.  He  moved  his  lips  as  if  to  speak,  and  I 
hastened  to  his  pillow  and  bent  over  him. 

He  whispered,  ''Stay  here." 

108 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  109 

"Yes,"  I  said,  and  sat  down  beside  him,  tak- 
ing his  moist,  chill  hand  between  my  own. 

He  repeated  weakly:  *'Stay  here.  Do  not  go 
away. ' ' 

The  Swedish  doctor  was  washing  his  hands  and 
talking  in  a  low  voice  to  Stahl.  He  turned  to  me 
and  said: 

"You  must  try  not  to  agitate  him.  Do  not  let 
him  speak  or  move  his  head. ' '  Then  he  went  out 
into  the  corridor  with  Stahl. 

Mrs.  Stahl  and  Vera  sat  mute  and  terror- 
stricken  in  a  corner.  I  watched  Bozevsky,  with 
a  deep,  dull  ache  racking  my  heart.  He  seemed 
to  be  falling  asleep.  I  felt  his  hand  relax  in  mine 
and  his  short  breathing  became  calmer  and  more 
regular. 

But  Stahl  came  in  again,  and  Bozevsky  opened 
his  eyes. 

Stahl  approached  the  bedside  and  stood  for  a 
long  while  looking  down  at  his  friend.  Then  he 
turned  to  me.  "A  nurse  is  coming,"  he  said.  "I 
will  take  you  ladies  home  and  then  come  back  and 
pass  the  night  with  him. ' ' 

Take  me  home!  How  could  I  return  home? 
How  could  I  endure  to  meet  Vassili  again?  At 
the  mere  thought  of  seeing  him,  who  with  a 
treacherous  shot  from  behind  had  shattered  this 


110  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

young  existence,  hatred  and  terror  flamed  up 
within  me.  No!  I  would  not  return  home. 
Never  again  would  I  touch  the  hand  of  Vassili 
Tamowsky. 

While  these  thoughts  traversed  my  mind,  some 
one  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  the  nurse.  Vera 
and  Madame  Grigorievska,  after  questioning  me 
with  their  eyes,  got  up  softly ;  then,  with  a  glance 
of  pity  at  Bozevsky,  they  went  on  tiptoe  out  of  the 
room. 

At  the  door  Stahl  beckoned  to  me  to  come.  But 
I  shook  my  head.  As  if  he  knew  what  was  passing 
Bozevsky  opened  his  eyes  again. 

''Stay  here,"  he  whispered.  Then  he  put  his 
hand  to  the  bandage  round  his  neck.  "If  you 
leave  me  I  will  tear  it  all  off. ' '  He  made  a  gesture 
as  if  he  would  do  so. 

"I  shall  not  leave  you,'*  I  whispered  bending 
over  him.    ''I  shall  never  leave  you  again." 

I  kept  my  word. 

Later  I  learned  that  Vassili  had  given  himself 
up  to  the  authorities,  and  that  my  grief-stricken 
mother  had  come  to  fetch  our  children  and  had 
taken  them  with  her  to  Otrada.  To  her  and  to 
my  father  they  were  the  source  of  much  melancholy 

joy. 


MABIE  TABNOWSKA  111 

Thus  did  the  old  garden  of  my  youth  open 
again  its  shadowy  pathways  and  flowery  lawns 
to  the  unconscious  but  already  sorrow-touched 
childhood  of  little  Tioka  and  Tania — those  tragic 
children  whose  father  was  in  prison  and  whose 
mother,  far  away  from  them,  watched  and  suffered 
by  the  sinister  death-bed  of  a  stranger.  To  me 
the  two  innocent,  angelic  figures  often  came  in 
my  dreams ;  and  I  cried  out  to  them  with  bitterest 
tears :  ^ '  Oh,  my  own  children,  my  two  loved  ones, 
forgive  your  mother  that  she  does  not  forsake  one 
who  is  dying  for  her  sake.  This  very  night,  per- 
haps, or  to-morrow — soon,  soon,  alas ! — his  life  will 
end.  And  with  a  broken  heart  your  mother  will 
return  to  you." 

But  Bozevsky  did  not  die  that  night.  Nor  the 
following  day.     Nor  the  day  after. 

Fate  had  in  store  for  him  and  for  me  a  much 
more  appalling  doom.  He  dragged  his  frightful 
death-agony  through  the  interminable  hours  of  a 
hundred  days  and  a  hundred  nights.  He  was 
doomed  to  trail  his  torment  from  town  to  town, 
from  surgeon  to  surgeon,  from  specialist  to  charla- 
tan. One  after  another,  they  would  unbandage 
the  white  and  withered  neck,  probe  the  blue-edged 
wound,  and  then  cover  up  again  with  yellow  gauze 


112  MARIE  TAENOWSKA 

the  horrifying  cavity ;  leaving  us  to  return,  heart- 
stricken  and  silent,  to  the  luxurious  hotels  that 
housed  our  irremediable  despair. 

About  that  time  I  heard  that  Vassili  had  been 
released  on  bail.  Later  on  he  was  acquitted  by 
a  jury  in  the  distant  city  of  Homel,  on  the  ground 
of  justifiable  homicide. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  just  verdict.  But  for  him 
whom  he  had  struck  down — and  for  me — what  an- 
guish, great  Heavens !  What  hngering  torture  of 
heart-breaking  days  and  nights. 

Ah,  those  nights,  those  appalling  nights!  We 
dreaded  them  as  one  dreads  some  monstrous  wild 
beast,  lurking  in  wait  to  devour  us.  All  day  long 
we  thought  only  of  the  night.  As  soon  as  twilight 
drew  near  Bozevsky,  lying  in  his  bed  with  his  face 
towards  the  window,  clutched  my  hand  and  would 
not  let  it  go. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  would  murmur,  **I  wish  it 
were  not  night.    If  only  it  were  not  night ! ' ' 

*' Nonsense,  dearest,"  I  would  say,  cheerfully. 
''It  is  quite  early.  It  is  still  broad  daylight. 
Everybody  is  moving  about.  The  whole  world  is 
awake  and  out  of  doors." 

But  night,  furtive  and  grim,  crouched  in  the 
shadowy  room,  lurked  in  dark  corners,  and,  then 
suddenly  was  upon  us,  black,  silent,  terrifying. 


MAEIE  TARN0AVSI^:A  113 

EoTind  us  the  world  lay  asleep,  and  we  two  were 
awake  and  alone  with  our  terror. 

Then  began  the  never-ending  question,  cease- 
lessly repeated,  reiterated  throughout  the  entire 
night : 

''What  is  the  time f" 

It  was  only  nine  o  'clock.  It  was  half-past  nine. 
.  .  .  Ten  .  .  .  Half-past  ten  ...  A  quarter  to 
eleven  .  .  .  Eleven  o'clock  .  .  .  Five  minutes 
past  .  .  . 

As  soon  as  it  was  dawn,  at  about  four  o'clock, 
Bozevsky  grew  calm.    Silence  fell,  and  he  slept. 

The  last  station  of  our  calvary  was  at  Yalta, 
in  the  Crimea.  We  had  gone  there  with  a  last 
up-flaming  of  hope.  There  were  doctors  there 
whom  we  had  not  yet  consulted.  There  was 
Ivanoff  and  the  world-famed  Bobros. 

** Continue  the  same  treatment,"  said  the  one. 

**You  must  try  never  to  move  your  head,"  said 
the  other. 

That  was  all. 

And  to  our  other  tortures  was  added  the  martyr- 
dom of  complete  immobility. 

*'I  want  to  turn  my  head,"  Bozevsky  would  say 
in  the  night. 

"No,  dearest,  no.    I  implore  you — " 


114  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

''I  must.  I  must  turn  it  from  one  side  to  the 
other.  If  I  stay  like  this  any  longer  I  shall  go 
mad!" 

Then,  with  infinite  precautions,  with  eyes  star- 
ing and  terror-filled,  like  one  who  yields  to  an  over- 
whelming temptation  or  performs  some  deed  of 
insane  daring,  Bozevsky  would  turn  his  sad  face 
slowly  round,  and  let  his  cheek  sink  into  the  pillow. 

His  fair  curls  encircled  with  flaxen  gaiety  his 
spent  and  desolate  face. 


XVIII 

Alone  with  him  during  those  long  terrible 
hours,  my  anguish  and  my  terror  constantly  in- 
creased. At  last  I  could  endure  it  no  longer  and 
I  telegraphed  to  Stahl: 

"Come  immediately." 

At  dusk  the  following  day  Stahl  arrived. 

I  had  hoped  to  derive  courage  and  consolation 
from  his  presence.  But  as  soon  as  he  stepped 
upon  the  threshold  my  heart  turned  faint  within 
me.  Thinner  and  more  spectral  than  ever,  with 
hair  dishevelled  and  eyes  sunken  and  dull,  he 
looked  dreamily  at  me,  while  a  continual  tremor 
shook  his  hands. 

I  greeted  him  timorously,  and  the  touch  of  his 
chill,  flaccid  fingers  made  me  shudder. 

Bozevsky  seemed  glad  to  see  him.  Stretching 
out  his  wasted  hand  to  him  he  said  at  once : 

' '  Stahl,  I  want  to  move  my  head. ' ' 

Stahl  seemed  not  to  understand,  and  Bozevsky 
repeated :  "I  want  to  turn  my  head  from  one  side 
to  another. ' ' 

115 


116  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

"Why  not?"  said  Stahl,  sitting  down  beside  the 
bed  and  lighting  a  cigarette.  **Tum  it  by  all 
means." 

It  was  growing  late ;  outside  it  was  already  dark. 
I  drew  the  curtains  and  turned  on  the  lights. 
Bozevsky  began  very  slowly  to  turn  his  head  from 
side  to  side ;  at  first  very  timorously  with  fright- 
ened eyes,  then  by  degrees  more  daringly,  from 
right  to  left  and  from  left  to  right. 

"Keep  still,  keep  still,  dearest,"  I  entreated, 
bending  over  him. 

"Stahl  said  it  would  not  hurt,"  panted  Bozev- 
sky. "Did  you  not,  Stahl?"  Stahl  made  no 
reply.  He  was  smoking,  with  his  heavy  eyes  half 
closed.  At  the  sight  of  him  I  was  filled  with  loath- 
ing and  fear. 

"Have  you  dined?"  I  inquired  of  him  after  a 
long  silence.     He  nodded  and  went  on  smoking. 

I  tried  to  coax  Bozevsky  to  take  an  egg  beaten 
up  in  milk,  but  he  continued  to  turn  his  head  from 
side  to  side  and  would  touch  nothing.  Little  by 
little  the  sounds  in  the  hotel  died  away.  The  gipsy 
music  which  had  been  audible,  faintly  in  the  dis- 
tance, ceased.  Night  crept  upon  us  sinister  and 
silent. 

Presently  Stahl  roused  himself  and  opened  his 
eyes.    He  looked  at  me  and  then  at  Bozevsky,  who 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  117 

lay  in  the  circular  shadow  cast  by  the  lamp  shade, 
dozing  with  his  mouth  slightly  open;  he  looked 
pitiful  and  grotesque  in  his  collar  of  yellow  gauze. 

Stahl  made  a  grimace ;  then  his  breath  became 
short  and  hurried  as  on  that  night  of  the  ball  when 
he  sat  beside  me  in  the  sleigh.  He  was  panting 
with  a  slight  sibilant  sound  and  with  a  quick  nerv- 
ous movement  of  his  head. 

''Stahl,"  I  whispered,  leaning  towards  him  and 
indicating  Bozevsky,  "tell  me — how  do  you  think 
he  is?" 

Stahl  did  not  answer.  He  seemed  not  to  have 
heard  me,  but  to  be  absorbed  in  some  mysterious 
physical  suffering  of  his  own. 

"^Vliat  is  the  matter,  Stahl?  What  is  the  mat- 
ter 1    You  are  frightening  me. ' ' 

With  a  nervous  twist  of  his  lips  intended  for  a 
smile  Stahl  got  up  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  room.  His  breath  was  still  short  and  hurried. 
He  drew  the  air  through  his  teeth  like  one  who  is 
enduring  spasms  of  pain. 

Then  he  began  to  talk  to  himself  in  a  low  voice. 
''I  can  wait,"  he  said  under  his  breath.  '*!  can 
wait  a  little  longer.  Yes — ^yes — yes,  I  can  wait  a 
little  longer." 

Bozevsky  had  opened  his  eyes  and  was  watching 
him. 


118  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

Horror  held  me  motionless  and  shivers  ran  like 
icy  water  down  my  spine. 

' '  Stahl,  Stahl,  what  is  the  matter  ? "  I  said,  and 
began  to  cry. 

Stahl  seemed  not  to  hear  me.  He  continued 
to  walk  up  and  down  muttering  to  himself;  '*! 
can  wait,  I  can  wait.  Just  a  little  longer — a  little 
longer — " 

Bozevsky  groaned.  ' '  Tell  him  to  keep  still, ' '  he 
said,  his  gaze  indicating  Stahl. 

I  seized  Stahl  by  the  arm.  ''You  must  keep 
quiet,"  I  said.     "Keep  quiet  at  once." 

He  turned  to  me  a  vacuous,  bewildered  face. 
I  grasped  his  arm  convulsively,  clutching  it  with 
all  my  strength :     ' '  Keep  still ! ' ' 

Stahl  sat  down.  ''Right,"  he  said.  "All 
right. ' ' 

He  searched  his  pocket  and  drew  out  a  small 
leather  case. 

Bozevsky  moved  and  moaned.  "I  am  thirsty," 
he  said.     ' '  Give  me  something  to  drink. ' ' 

I  hurried  to  the  bedside,  and  taking  up  a  glass 
of  sweetened  water,  I  raised  him  on  his  pillow 
and  held  the  glass  to  his  lips.  He  drank  eagerly. 
Then — horror !  .  .  .  horror !  Even  as  he  drank  I 
perceived  a  spot  of  pale  red  color,  wetting  the 
gauze    round   his   neck,    oozing   through    it    and 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  119 

spreading  in  an  ever-widening  stain.  Wliat — 
what  could  it  be?  It  was  the  water  he  was  drink- 
ing; he  was  not  swallowing  it  ...  it  was  trickling 
out  through  the  wound  in  his  neck.  All  the  gauze 
was  already  wet — now  the  pillow  as  well. 

^'Stahl,  Stahl!"  I  shrieked.  ''Look,  look  at 
this!" 

Stalil,  who  seemed  to  have  suddenly  regained 
his  senses,  came  quickly  to  the  bedside.  I  had  laid 
Bozevsky  back  on  the  piUow  and  he  was  looking 
at  us  with  wide-open  eyes. 

''Yes,"  said  Stahl,  contemplating  him  thought- 
fully. "Yes."  Suddenly  he  turned  to  me. 
"Come  here,  come  here.  Why  should  I  let  you 
suffer?" 

Then  I  saw  that  he  had  in  his  hand  a  small  glass 
instrument — a  morphia  syringe.  He  seized  my 
wrist  as  in  a  vice  and  with  the  other  hand  pushed 
back  the  loose  sleeve  of  my  gown. 

"Wliat  are  you  going  to  do?"    I  gasped. 

"Why,  why  should  you  suffer?"  cried  Stahl, 
holding  me  tightly  by  the  arm. 

"Are  you  killing  me?"    I  cried. 

"No,  no.     I  shall  not  kill  you.     You  will  see." 

I  let  him  take  my  arm  and  he  pricked  it  with 
the  needle  of  the  syringe,  afterwards  pressing  and 
rubbing  the  punctured  spot  with  his  finger. 


120  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

**Now  you  will  see,  now  you  will  see,"  he  re- 
peated over  and  over  again  with  a  vague  stupefied 
smile.  ''Sit  down  there,"  and  he  impelled  me  to- 
wards an  armchair. 

Bozevsky  in  his  wet  bandages  on  his  wet  pillow 
was  watching  us.  I  wanted  to  go  to  his  assistance, 
to  speak  to  him — but  already  a  vague  torpor  was 
stealing  over  me,  a  feeling  of  gentle  langour 
weighed  upon  my  limbs.  My  tense  and  quivering 
nerves  gradually  relaxed.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  sub- 
merged in  a  vague  fluid  serenity.  Every  anxious 
thought  dissolved  in  a  bland  and  blissful  somno- 
lence. ...  I  could  see  Bozevsky  move  restlessly 
and  again  begin  to  turn  his  head  from  side  to  side. 
Sunk  in  the  divine  lassitude  that  held  me,  I 
watched  his  movements,  glad  that  the  sight  of  them 
gave  me  no  pain. 

I  saw  that  Stahl  had  stretched  himself  on  the 
couch  and  lay  there  with  a  vacant  ecstatic  smile 
on  his  lips. 

All  at  once  Bozevsky  uttered  a  cry.  I  heard 
him,  but  I  felt  no  inclination  to  answer.  He 
struggled  into  a  sitting  position  and  looked  at  us 
both  with  wide,  horrified  eyes.  He  called  us  again 
and  again.  Then  he  began  to  weep.  I  could  hear 
his  weeping,  but  the  beatific  lethargy  which  en- 
gulfed me  held  me  motionless.    Perhaps  I  was 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  121 

even  smiling,  so  free  and  so  remote  did  I  feel  from 
all  distress  and  suffering. 

And  now  I  saw  Bozevsky  with  teeth  clenched 
and  hands  curved  like  talons,  madly  clutching  and 
tearing  away  the  bandages  from  his  neck. 

He  dragged  and  tore  the  gauze  with  quick 
frenzied  movements,  while  from  his  lips  came  a 
succession  of  whimpering  cries  as  of  a  dog  im- 
prisoned behind  a  door. 

I  smiled,  I  know  I  smiled,  as  I  gazed  at  him 
from  my  armchair. 

Stahl's  eyes  were  shut;  he  was  fast  asleep. 

Even  when  the  wasted  neck  was  stripped  bare, 
those  quick,  frenzied  movements  still  continued. 
What  my  eyes  then  saw  I  can  never  tell.  .  .  . 

Thus  died  Alexis  Bozevsky,  the  handsomest 
officer  in  the  Imperial  Guard. 


XIX 

After  that  all  is  dark.  A  blood-red  abyss 
seems  to  open  in  my  memory  wherein  everything 
is  submerged — even  my  reason. 

My  reason!  I  have  felt  it  totter  and  fall,  like 
something  detached  and  apart  from  myself;  and 
I  know  that  it  has  sunk  into  the  grave  that  covers 
Alexis  Bozevsky. 

Vaguely,  from  my  distant  childhood,  a  memory 
rises  up  and  confronts  me. 

I  am  in  a  school.  I  know  not  where.  It  is 
sunset,  and  I  am  at  play,  happy  and  alone,  in  the 
midst  of  a  lawn;  the  daisies  in  the  grass  are 
already  closed  and  rose-tipped,  blushing  in  their 
sleep.  Some  one  calls  my  name,  and  raising  my 
eyes  I  see  the  small  eager  face  of  my  playmate 
Tatiana  peering  out  of  an  oval  window  in  an  old 
turret,  where  none  of  us  are  ever  allowed  to 
go.  *'Mura!  Mura!  Come  quickly,"  she  cries. 
''The  turret  is  full  of  swallows!" 

"Full  of  swallows!"  I  can  still  recall  the 
ecstasy  of  joy  with  which  those  three  words  filled 

123 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  123 

me.  I  ran  to  the  entrance  of  the  old  tower  and 
helter-skeltered  up  the  dark  and  narrow  staircase ; 
then,  pushing  aside  a  mildewed  door,  I  found 
myself  with  Tatiana  in  a  gloomy  loft,  and  yes,  yes ! 
it  was  full  of  swallows ! 

They  flew  hither  and  thither,  darting  over  our 
heads,  brushing  our  faces,  making  us  shriek  with 
delight.  We  managed  to  catch  any  number  of 
them.  Many  were  even  lying  on  the  ground. 
Tatiana  filled  her  apron  with  the  fluttering  crea- 
tures, while  I  held  some  in  my  handkerchief  and 
some  in  my  hands.  Then  we  ran  downstairs  into 
the  dining-hall:  ''Look,  look!  we  have  caught  a 
lot  of  swallows ! "  I  can  still  see  the  girls  crowd- 
ing round  us,  and  the  face  of  the  mistress  bending 
forward  with  an  incredulous  smile;  I  see  her 
shrink  back,  horrified  and  pale,  with  a  cry  of  dis- 
gust :     ' '  Mercy  upon  us !     They  are  all  bats ! ' ' 

Even  now  the  recollection  of  the  shrieks  we  ut- 
tered as  we  flung  them  from  us  makes  my  flesh 
creep ;  even  now  I  seem  to  feel  the  slippery  smooth- 
ness of  those  cold  membranes  gliding  through  my 
fingers  and  near  my  cheeks.  .  .  . 

To  w^hat  end  does  this  childish  recollection  enter 
into  the  dark  tragedy  of  my  life?  This — that 
when  I  mount  into  the  closed  turret  of  my  mind 
in  quest  of  winged  thoughts  and  soaring  fancies, 


124  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

alas!  there  glide  through  my  brain  only  the 
monstrous  spirits  of  madness,  the  black  bats  of 
hypochandria.  .  .  . 

I  remember  little  or  nothing  of  those  somber 
days  in  Yalta.  I  can  vaguely  recollect  Stahl  tell- 
ing me  over  and  over  again  in  answer  to  my  de- 
lirious cries  for  Bozevsky:  ''He  is  dead!  He  is 
dead!  He  is  dead!"  And  as  I  could  not  and 
would  not  believe  him,  he  took  me  in  a  closed  car- 
riage through  many  streets ;  then  into  a  low  build- 
ing and  through  echoing  stone  passages  into  a 
large  bare  room — a  dissecting  room ! 

The  horror  of  it  seals  my  lips. 

Still  more  vaguely  do  I  recollect  the  death  of 
Stahl  himself.  I  know  that  one  evening  he  shot 
himself  through  the  heart,  and  was  carried  to  the 
hospital.  I  know  that  he  sent  me  the  following 
words  traced  in  tremulous  handwriting  on  a  torn 
piece  of  paper :  ' '  Mura !  I  have  only  half  an  hour 
to  live.    Come  to  me,  I  implore  you.     Come!" 

I  did  not  go  to  him.  The  terrible  lessons  he 
had  taught  me  were  bearing  fruit ;  all  I  did  when 
brought  face  to  face  with  some  new  calamity  was 
to  take  injection  after  injection  of  morphia;  and 
thus  I  sank  down  again  into  the  twilight  world  of 
unreality  in  which,  during  that  entire  period,  I 
moved  like  one  in  a  dream. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  125 

I  seemed  to  be  living  under  water,  in  a  perpetual 
dimness — a  fluid,  undulating  dusk. 

No  sooner  did  I  find  myself  rising  to  the  surface 
of  consciousness,  and  the  noisy  harshness  of  life 
confronted  me  again,  than  my  trembling  hands 
sought  the  case  that  hid  the  little  glass  viper  of 
oblivion — the  hypodermic  syringe  of  Pravaz. 

Over  the  tremulous  flame  of  a  candle  I  heated 
the  phial  of  whitish  powder  and  watched  it 
gradually  dissolve  into  a  clear  crystalline  liquid 
that  the  hollow  needle  thirstily  drank  up:  then 
I  bared  my  arm  and  thrust  the  steel  point  aslant 
into  my  flesh.  Soothing  and  benumbing  the  mor- 
phia coursed  through  my  veins;  and  I  sank  once 
more  into  the  well-known  beatific  lethargy,  the  un- 
dulating dusk  of  unreality  and  sleep.  .  .  . 

But  one  day  a  call  thrilled  through  the  envelop- 
ing cloud  and  reached  my  heart :  it  was  the  call  of 
motherhood.  Tioka!  Tania!  Where  were  my 
children?  Why,  why  were  my  arms  empty  when 
these  two  helpless  and  beloved  creatures  were 
mine? 

Horrified  at  myself  and  at  the  dream-like  apathy 
in  which  I  had  strayed  so  long,  I  tore  myself  from 
the  degrading  captivity  of  narcotics  and  with 
trembling  steps  tottered  towards  the  threshold  of 
life  once  more. 


126  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

Witli  dazed  eyes  I  beheld  the  altered  world 
around  me. 

How  everything  had  changed !  I  was  no  longer 
the  Countess  Tarnowska,  flattered,  envied  and 
beloved.  The  women  who  had  formerly  been  my 
friends  turned  their  eyes  away  from  me,  while  on 
the  other  hand  men  stared  at  me  boldly  in  a  way 
they  had  never  dared  to  look  at  me  before. 
Vassili — the  frivolous,  light-hearted  Vassili — shut 
his  door  upon  me,  and  secluded  himself  in  grim 
and  formidable  silence  as  in  the  walls  of  a  fortress. 
Vainly  did  I  beat  upon  it  with  weak  hands,  vainly 
did  I  pray  for  pity.  Inexorable  and  inaccessible 
he  remained,  locked  in  his  scorn  and  his  resent- 
ment. Nor  ever  have  the  gates  of  his  home  or  of 
his  heart  opened  to  me  again. 

I  took  refuge  with  my  children  at  Otrada. 

My  parents  received  us  in  sorrow  and  humilia- 
tion. Themselves  too  broken  in  spirit  to  offer 
me  any  consolation,  they  moved  silently  through 
the  stately  mansion,  blushing  for  me  before  the 
servants,  hiding  me  from  the  eyes  of  their 
friends. 

Even  my  children  hung  their  heads  and  crept 
about  on  tiptoe,  mute  and  abashed  without  know- 
ing why. 

One  day  Tania,  my  little  Tania,  was  snatched 


liARlE  TAENOWSKA  127 

from  my  arms.    Vassili  took  her  from  me,  nor  did 
I  ever  see  her  again. 

I  had  gone  out,  I  remember,  sad  and  alone,  into 
the  wintry  park.  By  my  side  trotted  Bear,  my 
father's  faithful  setter,  who  every  now  and  then 
thrust  his  moist  and  affectionate  nose  into  my 
hand.  In  my  thoughts  I  was  trying  to  face  what 
the  future  might  have  in  store  for  me. 

^'When  my  little  Tioka  grows  up,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "I  know,  alas!  that  I  shall  lose  him.  He 
will  want  to  live  with  his  father :  he  will  look  for- 
ward to  entering  upon  life  under  happy  and  propi- 
tious auspices.  Yes,  Tioka  will  leave  me,  I  know. 
But  my  little  girl  will  stay  with  me.  Tania  will 
be  my  very  own.  She  will  grow  up,  fair  and 
gentle,  by  my  side;  I  shall  forget  my  sorrows  in 
her  clinging  love;  I  shall  live  my  life  over  again 
in  hers.  I  shall  be  renewed,  in  strength  and 
purity,  in  my  daughter's  stainless  youth." 

As  I  thus  reflected  I  saw  my  mother  running  to 
meet  me,  her  gray  head  bare  in  the  icy  wind ;  she 
was  weeping  bitterly.  Tania  was  gone!  Vassili 
had  taken  her  away ! 

Notwithstanding  all  my  tears  and  prayers  it  was 
never  vouchsafed  to  me  to  see  my  little  girl  again. 

But  when  the  day  came  in  which  they  sought 
to  tear  my  son  from  me  as  well,  I  fought  like  a 


128  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

maddened  creature,  vowing  that  no  human  power 
should  take  him  from  me  while  I  lived.  I  fled  with 
him  from  Otrada — I  fled  I  knew  not  and  cared 
not  whither,  clasping  in  my  arms  my  tender  fair- 
haired  prey,  watching  over  him  in  terror,  guarding 
him  with  fervent  prayers.  I  fled,  hunted  onward 
by  the  restlessness  that  was  in  my  own  blood, 
pursued  by  the  bats  of  madness  in  my  brain. 

Thus  began  my  aimless  wanderings  that  were 
to  lead  me  so  far  astray. 

Alone  with  little  Tioka  and  the  humble  Elise 
Perrier,  I  took  to  the  highways  of  the  world. 

How  helpless  and  terrified  we  were,  all  three  of 
us !  It  was  like  living  in  a  melancholy  fairy  tale ; 
it  was  like  the  story  of  the  babes  lost  in  the  wood. 
Sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  a  street  in  some  great 
unknown  city,  little  Tioka  would  stop  and  say: 
**  Mother,  let  us  find  some  one  who  knows  us,  and 
ask  them  where  we  are  to  go  and  what  we  are  to 
do." 

**No,  no !    Nobody  must  know  us,  Tioka." 

Then  Tioka  would  begin  to  cry.  *'I  feel  as  if 
we  were  lost,  as  if  we  were  lost!  ..."  And  I 
knew  not  how  to  comfort  him. 

One  day — we  were  at  Moscow,  I  remember — 
there  appeared  to  me  for  the  first  time  that  lean 
and  threatening  wolf  which  is  called — Poverty. 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  129 

Poverty!  I  had  never  seen  it  at  close  range  be- 
fore. I  almost  thought  it  did  not  really  exist.  I 
knew,  to  be  sure,  that  there  were  people  in  the 
world  who  were  in  need  of  money ;  but  those  were 
the  people  whom  we  gave  charity  to ;  that  was  all. 

Poverty?    What  had  poverty  to  do  with  us? 

During  all  my  life  I  had  never  given  a  thought 
to  money. 


iXX 

"Elise,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  myself  in  this  ugly- 
black  dress  any  longer.  Write  to  Schanz  and  tell 
him  to  send  me  some  new  gowns.  I  want  a  dark 
green  tailor-made  costume,  and  a  pearl-gray 
voile. ' ' 

*'Yes,  my  lady.  But,  begging  your  ladyship's 
pardon,  Schanz  says  that  he  would  like  to  be  paid. ' ' 

*  '■  Well,  let  us  pay  him  then. ' ' 

"Yes,  my  lady.  But,  begging  your  ladyship's 
pardon,  his  bill  is  twenty-five  thousand  rubles. ' ' 

''Well,  let  him  have  them." 

'*I  am  sorry,  my  lady,  but  we  have  not  got 
twenty-five  thousand  rubles." 

It  was  true.  We  had  not  got  twenty-five  thou- 
sand rubles. 

'*Elise,  Tioka  wants  to  be  amused.  He  would 
like  a  toy  railway. ' ' 

**Yes,  my  lady." 

**Mind,"  cried  Tioka,  ''it  must  be  like  the  one 
we  saw  yesterday,  with  all  those  stations  and 
canals,  and  a  Brooklyn  bridge." 

"Yes,  Master  Tioka." 

130 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  131 

*'Well,  Elise,  what  are  you  waiting  for?" 

''Begging  your  ladyship's  pardon,  it  costs  eighty 
rubles. ' ' 

*'Welir' 

*'We  have  not  got  them." 

True  enough;  we  had  not  got  eighty  rubles. 

''Elise,  I  have  no  more  perfumes.  Go  and  get 
me  a  bottle  of  Coty's  Origant." 

"Yes,  my  lady.     But — ' ' 

"But  what?" 

"It  costs  twelve  rubles." 

"Well?" 

"We  have  not  got  them." 

And  indeed  we  had  not  got  twelve  rubles. 

I  thought  it  very  sad  not  to  have  twenty-five 
thousand  rubles,  nor  even  twelve  rubles,  when  I 
required  them. 

I  resolved  to  telegraph  to  my  mother. 

Feeling  sad  and  perplexed,  I  went  to  the  tele- 
graph office  and  sat  down  at  a  table  to  write  my 
message : 

"Mother,  dear,  we  are  unhappy  and  forlorn; 
Tioka  and  I  want  to  come  home  and  stay  with  you 
always.     Please  send  us  at  once — " 

I  was  meditating  on  what  sum  to  mention,  when 
I  felt  the  touch  of  a  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 
Startled,  I  turned,  and  raised  my  eyes.     Before 


132  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

me  stood  a  man — dark,  rather  tall,  with  a  brown 
mustache  and  pendulous  cheeks.  Surely  I  knew 
him!  Where  had  I  seen  that  face  before?  Sud- 
denly there  flashed  into  my  mind  the  recollection 
of  a  crowded,  brilliantly  lighted  restaurant.  I 
saw  Vassili,  amid  much  laughter,  counting  the 
dark-eyed  tziganes  to  see  if  one  of  them  were  miss- 
ing— Prilukoff!  ''The  Scorpion!"  It  was  he 
who  stood  before  me. 

''Countess  Tarnowska!  Who  would  have 
dreamt  of  finding  you  here!"  he  exclaimed. 
' '  What  are  you  doing  in  Moscow  ? ' ' 

"I — I  do  not  know,"  I  stanunered.  I  had  in 
fact  not  infrequently  asked  myself  what  I  was  do- 
ing in  Moscow. 

"I  have  heard  of  all  your  misfortunes,"  he  said, 
lowering  his  voice,  and  gazing  at  me  sympathetic- 
ally. "I  have  read  the  papers  and  heard  all  the 
fuss.  Come  now,  come,"  he  added,  "you  must 
not  weep.  Let  us  go  and  have  tea  at  the  Metro- 
pole;  there  we  can  talk  together."  And  he  took 
me  familiarly  by  the  arm. 

I  drew  back.  "I  wanted  to  telegraph — ,"  I 
began. 

"Telegraph?  To  whom?"  inquired  Prilukoff 
with  an  authoritative  air. 

' '  To  my  mother. ' ' 


MARIE  TARN0WSI^:A  133 

"Why?  What  do  you  want  to  telegraph  to  her 
fori" 

I  flushed.  "I — I  have  no  money — "  I  stam- 
mered. 

''Well,  I  have,"  said  Prilukoff,  and  he  drew  me 
out  of  the  office. 

At  the  top  of  the  steps  he  stopped  and  looked 
me  in  the  face.  "What  a  fortunate  meeting!" 
he  said.  "Our  lucky  star  must  have  brought  it 
about."  With  these  words  his  brown  eyes  looked 
straight  into  mine.  "Our  lucky  star!"  he  re- 
peated. 

Merciful  heaven,  why  did  not  a  whisper,  not  a 
breath  of  warning  come  to  me  then?  Why  did 
no  tremor  in  my  soul  admonish  me,  no  heavenly 
inspiration  hold  me  back?  Nothing,  nothing 
checked  the  smile  upon  my  lips,  nor  the  words  in 
which  I  gaily  answered  him : 

"Our  lucky  star!  So  be  it."  And  I  took  his 
arm. 

The  die  of  my  destiny  was  cast.  I  went  out  on 
my  way  to  destruction  and  ruin. 

There  were  many  people  and  much  music  in  the 
Metropole  when  we  entered. 

It  is  strange  to  think  how  all  the  memorable 
and  significant  hours  of  my  life  are  associated  in 


134  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

my  mind  with  the  entrancing  rhythm  of  dance- 
music,  with  the  Hlting  tunes  of  waltz,  mazurka  and 
polonaise. 

All  the  tragedies,  all  the  extravagances  that  con- 
vulsed my  existence  bloomed  up  like  tragic  modern 
flowers  in  the  hothouse  of  some  fashionable  res- 
taurant, under  the  feverish  breath  of  a  tzigane 
orchestra. 

So  great  became  the  power  of  this  obsession 
over  me,  that  no  sooner  did  I  enter  a  restaurant 
where  there  were  people,  and  lights,  and  the  music 
of  stringed  instruments,  than  I  straightway  felt 
as  if  I  had  lost  my  senses.  Under  the  influence 
of  such  an  atmosphere  all  my  thoughts  assumed 
disordered  and  extravagant  forms.  The  tones 
of  the  violins  excited  and  electrified  me;  as  the 
bows  swept  the  quivering  strings  I  also  quivered 
and  vibrated,  shaken  with  indescribable  pertur- 
bation. The  waves  of  sound  seemed  to  envelop 
me  in  a  turbid  vortex  of  sentiment  and  sensibility. 

Ah,  if  there  had  been  more  silence  in  my  life, 
more  shade,  more  seclusion  1  It  is  not  within  the 
safe  walls  of  the  home,  not  at  one's  own  peace- 
ful and  inviolate  hearth  that  perversity  stirs  to 
life  and  catastrophe  is  born. 

Oh  I  Tania,  my  only  daughter,  if  the  wishes  of 
your  sorrowful  mother  could  but  reach  you  and  her 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  135 

prayers  for  you  be  granted,  they  would  encompass 
with  shade  and  silence  your  young  and  virginal 
heart. 

And  I — ah,  if  I  could  but  go  back  to  the  white 
vacant  land  of  childhood,  I  would  kneel  down  and 
entreat  from  heaven  naught  else  but  shade  and 
silence  in  my  life.  .  .  . 

But  in  the  Cafe  Metropole  the  blazing  lights 
were  lit,  the  orchestra  was  swinging  its  unhallowed 
censer  of  waltz-music  through  the  perfumed  air 
and  the  Scorpion  was  sitting  before  me  drinking 
his  tea  and  laughing. 

"Do  you  remember  how  much  afraid  you  were 
of  me  at  the  Strelna,  when  I  jumped  from  the  divan 
and  touched  your  shoulder?  And  afterwards — 
when  you  found  me  asleep  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sleigh?" 

Yes,  I  remembered. 

"And  now  you  are  no  longer  afraid  of  me?" 

No.    Now  I  was  no  longer  afraid  of  him. 

Fate,  the  Fury,  standing  behind  me,  must  have 
laughed  as  with  her  nebulous  hand  she  covered  my 
smiling  eyes. 


XXI 

What  charmed  and  delighted  me  most  in  the 
Scorpion  was  a  pet  phrase  of  his  that  he  was  con- 
stantly using:    "Leave  that  to  me!" 

He  said  it  every  minute,  a  hundred  times  a  day. 
Occasionally  there  might  be  a  slight  variation ;  he 
might  say,  "Don't  trouble  your  head  about  that"; 
or  "Never  mind,  I  '11  see  to  it."  But  as  a  rule  it 
was  the  brief  enchanting  sentence:  "Leave  that 
to  me." 

I  cannot  possibly  describe  the  sense  of  utter  re- 
lief and  comfort  with  which  those  few  words  in- 
spired me.  I  felt  unburdened,  as  it  were,  ex- 
onerated, set  free  from  every  responsibility,  from 
every  anxiety,  almost  from  every  thought.  It  was 
as  if  Prilukoff  had  said  of  my  very  soul,  "Leave  it 
to  me,"  so  complete  was  my  sense  of  tranquil  re- 
linquishment. 

In  truth  I  had  never  given  much  thought  to  the 
practical  side  of  life.  No  sense  of  responsibility 
had  ever  weighed  upon  my  narrow  shoulders; 
there  had  always  been  so  many  people  around  me 
to  give  me  advice,  to  direct  me,  to  think  and  to 
act  on  my  behalf ! 

136 


MARIE  TARNOWSI^  137 

Wlien  I  had  suddenly  found  myself  alone  in  the 
world  with  Tioka  and  Elise  I  had  felt  more  fright- 
ened and  more  helpless  than  they.  But  now,  here 
once  more  was  some  one  ready  to  direct  me,  ready 
to  think  and  act  and  decide  for  me.  Occasionally, 
realizing  my  position,  I  exclaimed  anxiously: 
* '  Dear  me,  what  shall  I  do  about  money  ? ' ' 

Prilukoff  would  answer  briefly:  ''Leave  that 
to  me. ' ' 

''But  how  shall  I  pay  my  bills?" 

"Leave  your  bills  to  me." 

"And  how  shall  I  prevent  Vassili  from  robbing 
me  of  Tioka!" 

' '  Don 't  bother  about  Tioka.     Leave  him  to  me. ' ' 

' '  And,  oh  dear !  I  wish  I  could  be  divorced  from 
Vassili." 

"You  shall  be  divorced;  I  shall  see  to  it." 

"But  what  will  my  mother  say?" 

"Leave  your  mother  to  me." 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  in  the  world  that 
could  not  be  left  to  the  omniscient  and  all-sufficing 
care  of  Donat  Prilukoff.  I  was  deeply  moved  and 
grateful. 

"How  shall  I  ever  be  able  to  thank  you?" 

' '  Leave  the  thanking  to  me, ' '  said  Prilukoff. 

For  a  long  time,  indeed,  he  seemed  neither  to 
desire  nor  expect  any  gratitude.    He  looked  after 


138  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA. 

my  interests,  my  divorce,  my  parents,  my  son,  my 
maid,  my  debts,  and  my  healtli.  But  lie  asked  for 
no  thanks;  all  lie  required  was  tliat  I  should  be 
docile  and  content. 

It  was  a  period  of  respite.  Soon  I  forgot  that 
I  had  ever  thought  of  him  as  a  Scorpion  or  an 
octopus.  Indeed,  he  was  to  my  eyes  a  strange  and 
delightful  mixture  of  knight  errant,  of  guardian 
saint,  of  commissionaire  and  hero. 

I  did  not  feel  then  that  every  favor,  every 
counsel  I  asked  of  him,  was  but  another  link  in 
the  subtle  chain  that  bound  me  to  him. 

Soon  I  was  unable  to  do  anything  without  ask- 
ing for  his  opinion  and  his  assistance.  Tioka, 
Elise  and  I  grew  accustomed  to  see  him  arrive  with 
his  masterful  air  and  brisk  greeting  every  after- 
noon; then  every  morning;  then  every  evening  as 
well.  We  never  went  out  without  him;  no  letter 
was  received  or  written  without  its  being  given  to 
him  to  read. 

If  Tioka  broke  a  toy,  if  Elise  was  overcharged 
in  an  account,  if  I  received  an  anonymous  letter, 
it  was  immediately  referred  to  Prilukoff.  He  put 
everything  into  his  pocket,  saying:  ** Leave  that 
tome." 

And,  true  to  his  word,  he  mended  the  toys,  he 
adjusted  the  accounts,  he  discovered  and  punished 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  139 

my  anonymous  slanderers.  He  was  astute,  de- 
liberate and  intelligent. 

I  felt  convinced  that  lie  was  also  kind  and  gen- 
erous and  good. 

Who  can  say  that  in  those  days  he  was  not  so  I 
The  dreadful  Prilukoff,  assassin  and  blackmailer, 
who  turned  against  me,  livid  with  wrath,  in  the 
court-room  at  Venice,  was  he — could  he  be? — the 
same  Prilukoff  who,  in  those  far-off  days,  mended 
little  Tioka  's  playthings  ?  Who  was  so  anxious  if 
he  saw  me  looking  pale  ?  Of  whom  Elise,  clasping 
her  work-worn  hands,  used  to  say:  "When  he  ap- 
pears he  seems  to  me  like  Lohengrin!" 

Lohengrin !  How  bitterly  I  smile,  remembering 
all  that  ensued.  And  yet — I  cannot  believe  it.  I 
cannot  understand  it.  Which  of  those  two  beings 
— the  maleficent  demon  or  the  chivalrous  knight — 
was  the  real  Prilukoff? 

Perhaps,  when  these  sinister  years  of  prison 
and  sorrow  are  past  that  cancel  in  their  flight  so 
many  things,  and  shed  light  upon  so  many  others, 
some  day  he  may  cross  my  path  again.  Shall  I 
then  not  discern  in  his  faded,  grief -stricken  face 
the  strong  and  compassionate  Lohengrin  of  long 
ago?  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  I  drifted  on,  submissive  to  my  fate. 

Only  two  things  perturbed  me.    One  was  the 


140  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

fear  lest  Tioka  should  be  taken  from  me — an  an- 
guish that  was  with  me  day  and  night.  The  other 
was  a  torturing  secret,  which  I  confided  to  no  one. 
It  was — how  shall  I  say  if? — my  terror  of  closed 
doors ! 

Every  time  I  found  myself  alone  in  front  of  a 
closed  door,  I  did  not  dare  to  open  it.  I  had  the 
fixed,  frightful  idea  that  behind  the  door  I  should 
see — Bozevsky !  I  had  the  irremovable  conviction 
that  he  was  standing,  motionless  and  expectant, 
behind  every  door  that  confronted  me.  All  the 
doors  of  our  apartment  had  to  be  kept  wide  open. 
If  it  ever  happened  that  I  found  myself  alone  in 
a  room  of  which  the  door  was  closed,  instead  of 
opening  it  I  rang  the  bell,  I  called,  I  cried  for  help ; 
and  if  it  chanced  that  every  one  was  out,  or  no  one 
heard  me,  I  stood  riveted  to  the  spot,  rigid  with 
fear,  staring  at  the  terrifying  mystery  of  that 
closed  door  before  me.  Perchance,  with  a  great 
eifort  of  will,  holding  my  breath  while  the  beads 
of  cold  perspiration  started  on  my  brow,  I  ven- 
tured to  put  out  my  hand  towards  the  handle — but 
in  an  instant  I  found  myself  pushing  the  door  to 
again,  leaning  desperately  with  all  my  strength 
against  the  frail  barrier  which  concealed — oh,  I 
knew  it  did! — Bozevsky,  standing  upright  and 
terrible,  with  the  yellow  gauze  round  his  neck. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  141 

This  notion,  horrible  as  it  was  in  the  daytime, 
became  an  unbearable  fear  after  nightfall.  Tioka 
went  upstairs  to  bed,  accompanied  by  Elise,  at 
about  eight  o  'clock.  Twice  it  happened  that,  when 
they  were  both  asleep,  a  draught  caught  the  open 
door  of  the  drawing-room  in  which  I  was  sitting, 
and  shut  it.  With  chattering  teeth,  and  shivers 
running  over  me  like  chilly  water,  I  remained 
there,  motionless,  through  all  the  hours  of  the 
night,  knowing  that  Bozevsky  was  there,  separated 
from  me  only  by  that  slender  wooden  partition. 

In  the  morning  Elise  found  me  lying  on  the  floor 
in  a  faint. 

One  day  Elise  was  summoned  to  Neuchatel. 
Her  father  was  at  the  point  of  death,  and  wished 
to  give  his  last  embrace  and  blessing  to  his  only 
daughter.  It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
when  the  telegram  for  Elise  arrived;  at  eight 
o'clock,  distracted  and  weeping,  she  was  in  the 
train. 

Tioka  and  I,  who  had  accompanied  her  to  the 
station,  returned  homeward  feeling  sad  and  lonely. 
We  felt  doubly  lonely  that  day,  as  Donat  Prilukoff 
had  been  obliged  to  leave  Moscow  on  account  of 
a  lawsuit,  and  was  not  to  return  until  the  following 
evening. 

We  had,  it  is  true,  another  serving-woman,  a 


142  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

cook ;  but  she  left  us  every  evening  to  go  and  sleep 
at  her  own  home. 

We  entered  our  dark  and  silent  apartment  nerv- 
ously. I  hastily  turned  on  all  the  lights  and  then 
carried  Tioka,  who  was  cross  and  already  half 
asleep,  up  the  inner  staircase  leading  to  our  bed- 
rooms. 

I  undressed  him  and  put  him  to  bed,  tucking 
him  up  warmly  and  comfortably. 

*'0h,  dear,"  he  sighed,  rubbing  his  eyes;  ''do 
you  think  the  wolves  will  come  and  eat  me  if  I 
don't  say  my  prayers  to-night?" 

''No,  no,  dearest.  I  will  say  them  for  you.  Go 
to  sleep." 

I  kissed  him  and  turned  out  the  light;  then  I 
went  downstairs  to  get  a  book  from  the  library, 
intending  to  return  to  my  room  at  once.  I  felt 
nervous  and  restless.  I  was  afraid  I  should  not 
be  able  to  sleep. 

How  did  it  happen?  Perhaps  it  was  an  in- 
stant's forgetfulness  that  caused  me  to  draw  the 
door  of  the  library  after  me.  It  closed  with  a 
heavy  thud.  The  long,  dark-red  curtain  turned  on 
its  rod  and  fell  in  front  of  the  doorway. 

I  was  imprisoned ! 


XXII 

I  SHOULD  never  dare  to  leave  that  room. 

Suddenly  I  thought  that  Tioka  might  call  me. 
But  between  him  and  me,  standing  outside  on  the 
threshold  of  that  draped  door,  was  there  not  the 
man  whom  I  had  seen  die  in  Yalta?  Horrifying 
memory!  For  a  long  time  I  did  not  venture  to 
stir.  I  turned  my  head  and  looked  behind  me, 
then  fixed  my  eyes  afresh  on  the  red  curtain.  Sud- 
denly I  thought  I  heard  a  cry. 

Yes;  it  was  Tioka  calling  me,  Tioka  all  alone 
upstairs,  who  was  frightened  too,  frightened  even 
as  I  was.  With  shivers  swathing  me  from  head 
to  foot  as  with  an  icy  sheet,  I  listened  to  those 
cries  which  every  moment  grew  shriller  and  wilder. 
Then,  in  answer  to  him,  I  screamed  too. 

Oh,  those  shrieks  ringing  through  the  empty 
house — shrieks  which  only  that  silent  ghost  behind 
the  door  could  hear  I 

Suddenly  another  thrill  ran  through  me;  the 
electric  bell  had  sounded.  Some  one  was  ringing 
at  our  door;  some  one  was  coming  to  save  us. 
Tioka  still  screamed,  and  the  bell  continued  to  ring. 

143 


144  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

I  could  also  hear  blows  on  the  door  and  then  a 
voice — Prilukoff's  voice — calling:  "It  is  I. 
Open  the  door!" 

With  a  sob  of  mingled  terror  and  joy  I  thrust 
back  the  curtain  and  flung  open  the  dreaded  door. 
Stumbling  blindly  through  the  passage  I  reached 
the  hall  door  and  drew  back  the  latch.  Prilukoff 
stood  on  the  threshold;  he  was  pale  as  death. 

''What  has  happened?"  he  cried.  "What  is 
the  matter?"    And  he  gripped  my  arm. 

I  was  sobbing  with  joy  and  relief.  "Tioka, 
Tioka!"  I  called  out.  "Don't  cry  any  more. 
Donat  has  come !     We  are  here,  we  are  near  you ! ' ' 

Tioka 's  cries  ceased  at  once. 

But  Prilukoff  still  held  me  fast.  "What  has 
happened!"  he  asked,  clenching  his  teeth. 

"I  was  afraid,  I  was  afraid — "  I  gasped. 

"Of  whom?" 

A  fresh  outburst  of  tears  shook  me.  "Of  the 
dead,"  I  sobbed. 

"Leave  the  dead  to  me,"  said  Prilukoff. 

He  entered  and  shut  the  door. 

•••••••9 

Thus,  unconscious  and  unwilling,  I  descended  yet 
another  step  down  the  ladder  of  infamy. 

Shrinking  and  reluctant  I  trailed  my  white  gar- 
ments into   defilement,   sinking  with  every  step 


LiARIE  TARNOWSKA  145 

deeper  into  the  mire  which  was  soon  to  engulf  me ; 
the  mire  which  was  to  reach  my  proud  heart,  my 
pearl-encircled  throat,  my  exalted  brow  on  which 
nobility  had  set  its  seal  in  vain. 

It  was  about  that  time,  I  remember,  that  Del- 
phinus,  a  renowned  fortune-teller,  came  to  Moscow. 
One  morning,  having  nothing  else  to  do,  I  went 
with  the  smiling,  skeptical  Elise  to  consult  him  in 
his  luxurious  apartments. 

He  took  both  my  hands  and  gazed  for  a  long 
time  at  a  crystal  ball  which  was  before  him.  Then 
he  said :     ' '  Woman,  your  life  is  a  tragedy. ' ' 

I  smiled,  incredulous  yet  disturbed.  ' '  Pray  say 
rather  a  comedy,  if  you  can. ' ' 

He  shook  his  head.  "A  tragedy,"  he  repeated 
gloomily.  Then  he  uttered  several  commonplaces 
which  might  apply  to  any  other  woman  as  well 
as  to  me.  Finally,  with  knitted  brows,  he  looked 
still  more  closely  into  the  crystal.  "Two  men," 
he  said,  speaking  slowly,  "have  yet  to  enter  into 
your  life.  One  will  bring  salvation,  the  other  ruin. 
Choose  the  one,  and  you  will  attain  happiness; 
choose  the  other  and  you  will  perish. ' ' 

He  paused.  "You  will  choose  the  other,"  he 
said,  and  released  my  hand. 

I  got  up,  smiling.  ' '  Oh,  no,  indeed !  Now  that 
I  have  been  forewarned — " 


146  MARIE  TAENOWSKA 

''You  will  choose  the  other,"  he  repeated  or- 
acularly.    "  It  is  your  destiny. ' ' 

Although  I  am  not  really  superstitious,  this 
curt,  obscure  prediction  impressed  me  strangely. 

"I  shall  beware  of  whom  I  meet,"  I  said  to  my- 
self; and  indeed,  every  time  a  man  spoke  to  me, 
even  casually,  I  wondered :  could  this  be  the  One  ? 
—or  the  Other? 

But  days  and  months  passed,  and  I  made  no 
new  acquaintances. 

Prilukoff  kept  me  jealously  secluded,  and  little 
Tioka  absorbed  my  every  hour.  Apart  from  these 
two  I  saw  no  one  at  all. 

It  was  by  mere  chance  that  one  day  I  met  a 
former  acquaintance. 

I  had  taken  Tioka  for  a  walk  in  the  park  when 
we  saw  a  gentleman  and  a  child  sitting  on  a 
bench  in  the  shade.  They  were  both  dressed  in 
deep  mourning,  and  they  looked  sad  and  discon- 
solate. The  little  boy  was  leaning  his  fair  head 
on  his  father's  arm,  watching  him  as,  with  an  air 
of  melancholy  abstraction,  he  traced  hieroglyphics 
in  the  gravel  with  his  stick.  On  hearing  us  ap- 
proach the  man  in  mourning  raised  his  head  and 
looked  at  us. 

I  recognized  him  at  once.  It  was  Count  Paul 
Kamarowsky,  the  husband  of  one  of  my  dearest 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  147 

friends,  wlio  lived  at  Dresden,  and  whom  I  had  not 
seen  for  nearly  two  years. 

He  recognized  me,  too,  and  started  to  his 
feet  with  eager  face,  while  the  little  boy  looked 
at  us  diffidently,  still  holding  to  his  father's 
sleeve. 

''Countess  Tarnowska!"  he  exclaimed,  holding 
out  both  his  hands. 

I  laid  my  hand  in  his ;  as  he  clasped  it  between 
his  black-gloved  fingers  a  slight  shiver  ran  through 
me.  I  turned  to  the  pale  little  child  beside  him 
who  was  still  glancing  up  at  me  timidly.  '*Is  this 
Grania?" 

"Yes.  It  is  Grania,"  said  Count  Kamarowsky. 
Then  he  perceived  my  questioning  glance  at  his 
mourning.  ''Poor  Emilia — "  he  began,  but  his 
voice  broke. 

"Poor  Emilia?"  Was  it  possible  that  my  little 
school  friend  of  long  ago,  the  fair-haired,  laugh- 
ter-loving Lily  should  now  be  "poor  Emilia,"  to 
be  spoken  of  in  solemn,  mournful  tones'?  I  could 
hardly  believe  it.  I  seemed  to  see  her  still,  bend- 
ing over  her  'cello  with  her  fair  curls  tumbling 
over  her  face  as  she  played  her  favorite  Popper 
tarantelle.  ...  I  could  see  her  laughing  with  mis- 
chievous eyes  agleam  behind  her  flaxen  locks,  like 
dark  stars  seen  through  a  golden  cloud.    And 


148  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

here,  clad  in  mourning  for  her,  her  husband  and 
child  stood  before  me. 

Great  tenderness  and  pity  filled  my  heart. 

Tioka  had  gone  close  to  Grania,  and  the  two 
children  were  looking  at  each  other  with  that  ex- 
pression of  simple  gravity  which  is  so  far  removed 
from  the  conventional  smile  with  which  grown-up 
people  greet  each  other  for  the  first  time.  Their 
gaze  was  serious,  thoughtful  and  interrogative. 

"Do  you  like  pelicans?"  Tioka  inquired  sud- 
denly. 

*'No,"  said  Grania. 

''Neither  do  I,"  said  Tioka;  and  there  was  a 
long  silence. 

''Do  you  like  ducks?"  asked  Tioka. 

"Yes,"  replied  Grania. 

"  So  do  I, "  said  Tioka ;  and  their  friendship  was 
sealed. 

Count  Kamarowsky  and  I  were  less  prompt  in 
discovering  a  community  of  tastes  such  as  that 
which  so  quickly  linked  our  two  children  together. 
This  grave  silent  man  in  his  widower's  garb  was 
almost  a  stranger  to  me.  As  we  parted  he  asked 
permission  to  call.  But  on  the  following  day  a 
telegram  from  my  father  sununoned  me  to  Otrada. 
My  mother  was  ill  and  desired  my  presence. 


XXIII 

It  was  a  hurried  departure  and  an  anxious 
journey.  We  arrived  late  in  the  evening  at  my 
father's  house.  He  came  to  meet  us  at  the  gate, 
tall  and  solemn,  his  white  hair  stirred  by  the  wind. 
He  kissed  me  without  speaking  and  laid  his  hand 
on  Tioka's  head. 

''Mother — T'    I  scarcely  dared  to  inquire. 

''Better.  She  is  better.  She  has  improved 
greatly  since  she  knew  you  were  coming." 

Tioka  had  hurriedly  kissed  his  grandfather's 
hand,  and  now  was  hastening  up  the  great  stair- 
case to  see  his  grandmother,  to  w^hom  he  was  pas- 
sionately attached.  Soon  his  rippling  laughter 
and  his  nimble  footsteps  could  be  heard  all  over 
the  house,  and  my  mother  said  that  the  happiness 
of  it  had  well-nigh  cured  her. 

It  was  scarcely  daybreak  next  morning  when 
Tioka  came  to  call  me  to  go  down  with  him  into 
the  garden. 

The  great  garden  at  Otrada — the  garden  of  my 
girlhood — glowed  in  all  its  summer  splendor,  and 
Tioka  ran  before  me  with  cries  of  joy  at  every- 
thing he  saw. 

149 


150  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

''Look  at  the  water!  Look  at  the  little  bridge! 
Did  you  play  here  when  you  were  little?  Were 
you  ever  really  little?"  He  looked  at  me  doubt- 
fully.    ''I  mean  really  quite  little — like  Tania." 

The  mention  of  his  sister 's  name  was  like  a  blow 
to  my  heart.  But  Tioka  was  already  flying  across 
the  lawn. 

''Oh,"  he  cried.  "There  's  the  swing!  I  had 
forgotten  there  was  a  swing!    Hurrah!" 

"Hush,  hush,  dearest,"  I  warned;  "don't  dis- 
turb grandmama  who  is  ill. '  * 

He  swung  backwards  and  forwards,  careless 
and  handsome,  shaking  his  blond  hair  in  the  wind. 

"Grandmama  cannot  hear  me;  she  is  fast 
asleep  still.  And  besides  she  is  not  ill  any  more 
now  that  we  are  here ;  otherwise  grandpapa  would 
not  have  gone  to  Kieff  to-day."  Tioka  jumped 
down  from  the  swing  and  raised  his  face  to  me 
with  adorable  seriousness.  "Tell  me,  mother, 
when  one  is  ill  with  nervousness  doesn't  that 
mean  that  you  want  something  you  haven't  got? 
Then  if  you  get  it  you  are  well  again,  are  n  't  you  ? 
Grandmama  wanted  us.  We  came.  And  now  she 
is  cured."  After  a  pause  he  went  on:  "I  think 
I  am  ill  with  nervousness  too.  I  am  nervous  for  a 
bowl  of  goldfish;  and  for  a  hunting  dog  like  that 
one,"  he  added,  indicating  a  large  setter  lying 


MARIE  TAENOWSKA  151 

stretched    in    the    sun   with   his    muzzle    on   his 
paws. 

"Why,  that  is  Bear!"  I  cried,  ''our  old  Bear." 
I  bent  down  to  caress  him.  ''Dear  Bear,  good 
Bear !    Don 't  you  recognize  me  1 ' ' 

Bear  raised  his  languid,  blood-shot  eyes,  but  did 
not  stir. 

"How  sad  he  looks,"  I  said,  touching  his  muzzle 
to  see  whether  his  nose  was  hot.  "Perhaps  he  is 
ill." 

"Perhaps  he  is  nervous,  too,"  said  Tioka. 
"Very  likely  he  is  nervous  because  he  wants  a 
bone. ' '  And  the  child  broke  into  a  peal  of  shrill, 
merry  laughter. 

In  an  instant  the  great  dog  had  turned  and 
leaped  upon  him.  Snarling  and  growling  he  tore 
at  his  clothes,  covering  his  shoulders  and  breast 
with  blood-stained  foam. 

Tioka  fell  shrieking  to  the  ground.  I  flung  my- 
self upon  the  frenzied  animal,  seizing  him  by  the 
collar,  by  the  ears,  and  striving  to  drag  him  back ; 
but  with  hoarse  growls  and  snappish  barks  the 
dog  kept  biting  and  tearing  the  child's  garments 
as  he  lay  prostrate  and  inert  on  the  gravel.  With 
one  hand  I  clutched  the  neck  of  the  dog,  while  with 
the  other  I  picked  up  a  stone  and  beat  him  on  the 
head  with  it  until  the  blood  ran. 


152  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

With  a  roar  like  that  of  a  tiger,  the  animal 
turned  and  sprang  upon  me. 

I  felt  the  sting  of  his  fang  as  it  bit  into  my  arm, 
and  I  struck  his  nose  with  the  stone  which  was 
already  covered  with  blood.  With  a  cry  of  pain 
that  had  almost  a  human  sound,  the  dog  released 
his  hold,  turned  and  went  off. 

I  saw  him  trotting  away  along  the  path, 
surly  and  dreadful,  with  his  tail  hanging  down 
and  his  wounded  head  showing  red  in  the 
sunshine. 

I  picked  up  the  moaning,  sobbing  Tioka  and  ran 
with  him  to  the  house. 

''Don't  cry!  don't  cry,  my  darling,"  I  implored 
him,  myself  in  tears.  "Don't  let  poor  grand- 
mama  hear  you!  It  will  kill  her."  And  Tioka 
tried  his  best  to  cry  more  softly.  We  crossed  the 
courtyard  to  the  servants '  entrance,  and  I  ran  into 
the  kitchen  where  the  servants  came  thronging 
round  us  in  alarm. 

*'The  dog — ,"  I  panted,  "the  dog  has  bitten  us 
— do  you  think  it  will  give  us  hydrophobia?" 
With  a  groan  I  dropped  little  Tioka  into  a  chair ; 
he  was  a  pitiable  sight  in  his  torn  and  blood- 
stained garments. 

The  women  and  the  two  moujiks  wrung  their 
hands.    "Oh,  Lord!    Oh,  Lord!    What  shall  we 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  153 

do?  With  the  master  at  Kieff  and  the  Countess 
ill  in  bed!" 

The  cook  had  filled  a  basin  with  boiling  water 
and  was  laving  Tioka's  wounds,  while  he  screamed 
with  the  redoubled  pain. 

I  knew  it  was  necessary  to  do  something  in- 
stantly. But  what?  I  remembered  having  read 
in  the  life  of  the  three  Bronte  sisters  that  one  of 
those  heroic  girls  had  been  bitten  by  a  mad  dog, 
and  that  she  herself,  without  disturbing  her  sister, 
who  was  ill  with  consumption,  had  heated  an  iron 
red-hot  and  had  cauterized  her  own  wounds. 

* '  Put  an  iron  in  the  fire ! "  I  said,  pointing  with 
trembling  hand  to  the  poker. 

The  dismayed  women  did  so,  and  I  bared  my 
arm  and  little  Tioka's  lacerated  shoulder. 

But  when  I  had  the  terrible  instrument  with 
its  glowing  point  in  my  hand,  my  courage  failed. 
Tioka  was  shrieking  with  terror  like  a  poor  little 
maddened  creature,  and  the  women  were  on  their 
knees,  weeping  and  praying. 

Alas,  I  am  not  a  heroine ;  I  threw  away  the  red- 
hot  iron;  we  bound  up  the  wounds — ^which,  after 
they  had  been  washed,  looked  insignificant  and 
harmless  enough — and  determined  to  go  to  Kieff 
at  once  and  consult  a  doctor.  We  went  upstairs  on 
tip-toe  to  my  mother's  room.     She  was  still  sleep- 


154  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

ing  quietly,  with  her  small,  pinched  face  sunk  in 
the  pillow. 

We  did  not  venture  to  wake  her  and  tell  her  our 
terrifying  story.  We  left  orders  with  the  servants 
that  they  were  to  say  my  father  had  summoned  us 
to  meet  him  in  Kieff ;  and  we  started. 

All  the  way  I  watched  Tioka  with  the  deepest 
anxiety.  I  also  probed  my  own  feelings  intently, 
wondering  whether  I  felt  any  desire  to  bark.  I 
cannot  say  that  I  did.  Also,  during  the  entire 
journey,  I  kept  on  showing  Tioka  glasses  of  water, 
but  he  did  not  seem  to  feel  any  the  worse  for  them ; 
nor  did  I.     This  comforted  us  a  little. 

As  soon  as  we  reached  Kieff  I  telegraphed  to 
Prilukoff : 

"Both  of  us  bitten  by  mad  dog.  What  shall  we 
do?" 

He  replied:    "All  right.    Leave  it  to  me." 

And,  indeed,  he  arrived  immediately  and  took 
us  to  Doctor  Fritkof,  who  gave  us  injections  of 
antirabic  serum  for  three  weeks.  It  made  us  feel 
very  ill.  Every  minute  I  asked  Tioka :  "Do  you 
feel  inclined  to  bite  any  onef" 

He  invariably  replied  in  the  affirmative,  which 
made  me  very  miserable. 


XXIV 

Although  Tioka  and  I  both  recovered,  this 
alarming  incident  had  its  consequences  on  my  life. 
It  caused  me  to  leave  my  old  home,  and  from  the 
moment  of  that  departure  I  never  saw  my  dear 
mother  again. 

With  the  passing  of  her  mild  and  tender  pres- 
ence all  that  still  was  pure  and  holy  vanished  out 
of  my  life. 

I  was  already  on  the  brink  of  perdition.  Freed 
from  the  restraint  of  that  gentle  hand,  whose  light 
touch  even  from  afar  had  still  controlled  my  heart, 
I  plunged  forward  to  destruction. 

The  inheritance  was  divided,  and  my  share  was 
dissipated  I  know  not  how.  I  returned  to  Mos- 
cow, and  found  myself  ever  more  and  more  in  need 
of  money. 

I  lived  luxuriously,  I  dressed  gorgeously,  and 
traveled  from  one  place  to  another — ^yet  I  had 
nothing  of  my  own  except  an  income  of  four  thou- 
sand rubles  a  year,  which  were  scarcely  paid  to  me 
before  they  were  swallowed  up  in  the  gulf  of  my 

155 


156  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

debts.    I  asked  Prilukoff  for  money,  and  he  gave 
it  to  me. 

But  there  came  a  day  when,  on  my  asking  him 
for  five  thousand  rubles,  he  turned  upon  me 
abruptly. 

'^I  have  not  got  them,"  he  said.  ''At  least," 
he  added,  ''not  unless  I  steal  them." 

' '  How  dreadful, ' '  I  exclaimed  in  terror.  ' '  How 
can  you  say  such  a  thing?"  Then  I  laughed,  feel- 
ing sure  that  he  had  spoken  in  jest. 

"Get  them  from  Kamarowsky,"  said  Prilukoff, 
curtly. 

I  started  with  indignation.  From  Kamarow- 
sky! Never,  never,  as  long  as  I  lived.  I  had 
seen  him  frequently  during  the  last  few  days; 
he  and  his  charming  little  son,  Grania,  still  in  their 
deep  mourning  and  with  pale,  sad  faces,  used  to 
come  and  see  me,  and  talk  to  me  with  many  tears 
about  their  dear  one  who  was  gone.  It  would 
have  been  horrible,  it  would  have  been  indecorous, 
to  ask  Kamarowsky  for  money. 

"I  did  not  say  you  were  to  ask  him  for  it,"  re- 
torted Prilukoff. 

"What  then?" 

"Telephone  and  invite  him  to  dine  with  you 
to-morrow. ' ' 

"Well?    And  then?" 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  157 

"Then  we  shall  see." 

As  he  insisted  I  complied  reluctantly. 

Kamarowsky  accepted  the  invitation  with  touch- 
ing gratitude,  and  a  large  basket  of  roses  preceded 
his  arrival. 

Prilukoff,  who  was  still  hanging  about  in  my 
boudoir,  but  declared  that  he  would  not  stay  to 
dinner,  sniffed  the  roses  with  a  cynical  smile : 

"Flowers!  Flowers!  Nothing  but  flowers! 
Nous  allons  changer  tout  cela." 

The  door  bell  rang,  announcing  the  arrival  of 
my  visitor. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  him  now  he  is  here?" 
I  asked  Prilukoff  uneasily.  "What  shall  I 
say?" 

"Do  nothing  and  say  nothing.  And  mind  you 
don't  open  any  letter  in  his  presence." 

"Any  letter?"  I  asked,  in  bewilderment. 
"What  letter?" 

"I  tell  you  not  to  open  any.  That  is  enough." 
With  this  obscure  injunction  Prilukoff  urged  me 
towards  the  drawing-room,  and  I  went  in  to  re- 
ceive my  guest. 

Count  Kamarowsky,  while  inspiring  me  with  the 
deepest  pity,  frequently  irritated  and  annoyed  me. 
His  grief  for  his  lost  Emilia  was  doubtless  deep 
and  sincere  5  but  sometimes  when  I  tried  to  console 


158  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

liim  I  seemed  to  read  in  his  tear-filled  eyes  an  emo- 
tion that  was  not  all  sorrow,  and  in  the  clasp  of 
his  hand  I  perceived  a  fervor  that  spoke  of  some- 
thing more  than  gratitude.  I  felt  hurt  for  the 
sake  of  my  poor  friend,  Lily,  so  lately  laid  to  her 
rest ;  and  I  shrank  from  him  with  feelings  akin  to 
anger  and  aversion. 

Yet,  when  I  saw  him  moving  away,  pale  in  his 
deep  mourning,  leading  his  sad  little  child  by  the 
hand,  my  heart  was  touched  and  I  would  call  them 
back  to  me  and  try  to  comfort  them  both.  The 
child  clung  to  me  with  passionate  affection,  while 
his  father  seemed  loth  ever  to  leave  my  side. 

Conversation  between  us  always  soared  in  the 
highest  regions  of  ethereal  and  spiritual  things; 
our  talk  was  all  on  abstract  subjects,  dwelling 
especially  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  the  abode 
of  the  departed,  the  probabilities  of  reunion  in  the 
world  beyond.  The  commonplace  everyday  prose 
of  life  was  so  far  removed  from  our  intercourse 
that  I  felt  shy  of  having  asked  him  to  dinner.  To 
eat  in  the  presence  of  so  much  sorrow  seemed  in- 
decorous and  out  of  keeping.  Nevertheless,  as  I 
had  invited  him  to  dine  I  could  not  but  seat  myself 
opposite  him  at  the  flower-decked,  fniit-laden 
table. 

A  man-servant,  lent  to  me  for  the  occasion  by 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  159 

Prilukoff ,  lianded  the  zakusta  and  the  vodka ;  and 
soon  in  the  mellow  atmosphere  of  the  little  dining- 
room,  under  the  gentle  luster  of  the  pink-shaded 
lamps,  a  rare  smile  blossomed  timidly  now  and 
then  out  of  the  gloom  of  our  melancholy  conver- 
sation. 

We  had  scarcely  finished  taking  our  coffee  when, 
to  my  astonishment,  Prilukoff  was  announced. 
He  entered  with  rapid  step,  holding  a  large  sealed 
envelope  in  his  hand.  For  a  moment  he  seemed 
disconcerted  at  finding  that  I  was  not  alone,  and 
looked  as  if  he  would  hide  the  letter  behind  his 
back.  Then,  with  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
as  if  acquiescing  in  the  unavoidable  presence  of  a 
stranger,  he  handed  me  the  envelope  with  a  deep 
bow. 

''What  is  it?"  I  asked  in  surprise. 

Prilukoff  glanced  somewhat  uneasily  at  my 
guest,  then  he  bent  forward  and  said  in  a  low  voice 
— yet  not  so  low  that  the  other  could  not  hear  what 
he  said : 

' '  This  morning,  Countess,  you  did  me  the  honor 
of  confiding  to  me  the  fact  that  you  needed  ten 
thousand  rubles.  I  shall  be  most  grateful  and 
honored  if  you  will  accept  that  sum  from  me." 
So  saying,  he  placed  the  envelope  in  my  hand. 
Then  with  a  brief  salutation  to  Count  Kama- 


160  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

rowsky  and  another  profound  bow  to  me,  he 
pleaded  haste  and  withdrew. 

A  flush  had  mounted  to  the  Count's  temples. 

''Who  was  that?"  he  asked  in  a  harsh  voice. 

I  mentioned  Prilukoff 's  name,  and  Kamarowsky 
with  knitted  eyebrows  exclaimed:  "You  must 
have  very  confidential  relations  with  him,  if  he 
permits  himself  to  give  you  ten  thousand  rubles." 

"Oh,  no — no,"  I  stammered.  "He  is — he  is 
only  lending  them  to  me.  I  shall  pay  them  back, 
of  course — " 

Kamarowsky  had  risen  from  his  chair.  He 
took  both  my  hands  and  pressed  them  to  his  breast. 

"How  wrong  of  you!  How  wrong!  Why  did 
you  not  ask  me?  Have  you  no  confidence  in  me? 
How  can  you  accept  assistance  from  a  stranger 
when  I  am  here — I,  who  am  so  devoted  to  you?" 

I  know  not  why  I  burst  into  tears.  A  sense  of 
shame  and  degradation  overcame  me.  In  a  mo- 
ment his  arms  were  round  me. 

"Dearest,  sweetest,  do  not  cry.  I  know  you 
must  feel  humiliated  at  accepting  money  from  that 
man,  who  may  afterwards  make  all  kinds  of  claims 
upon  you.  Return  the  money  to  him,  I  implore 
you,  and  accept  it  from  me. ' ' 

I  could  not  answer  for  my  tears. 

"Promise  me  that  you  will  give  it  back,"  Kama- 


MAEIE  TAENOWSKA  161 

rowsky  went  on,  clasping  me  closer  to  him.  ''If 
you  refuse  me  tliis  favor  I  shall  go  away  and  you 
shall  never  see  me  again.  For  the  sake  of  our 
Emilia — for  the  sake  of  little  Grania — accept  it 
from  me.  And  let  me  be  your  friend  from  now 
on  and  forever. ' ' 

It  took  a  long  time  to  reconcile  me  to  the  sense 
of  my  own  debasement. 

He  wrote  out  a  check  to  me  for  ten  thousand 
rubles  and  put  it  into  my  hands.  He  closed  my 
fingers  forcibly  over  it,  pressing  them  closely  and 
thanking  me  in  a  moved  voice. 

Then  he  went  away,  and  I  was  left  alone  with 
the  check  and  Prilukoff' s  sealed  envelope. 

I  had  wanted  five  thousand  rubles  and  here  I 
was  with  twenty  thousand  before  me ! 

Poor,  good  Kamarowsky!  And  poor,  dear, 
kind  Prilukoff ! 

*'I  do  not  see  why  I  should  really  return  this 
to  Prilukoff!"  I  said  to  myself. 

I  broke  the  seals  and  opened  the  envelope  that 
he  had  presented  to  me  with  so  much  solemnity. 
Petrified  with  astonishment  I  gazed  at  its  con- 
tents.    Then  I  laughed  softly. 

''On  the  whole,  I  think  I  will  return  it,"  I  said, 
and  laid  the  envelope  aside. 

It  was  full  of  old  newspaper  cuttings ! 


XXV 

Facilis  descensus  Averni. 

My  downfall  was  rapid  and  irretrievable. 

I  soon  became  familiar  with  expedients  and 
intrigues,  I  trod  the  tortuous  paths  that  lead  down 
into  the  valley  of  dishonor.  For  the  outside 
world  I  might  still  appear  a  person  of  distinction, 
I  might  still  call  myself  the  Countess  Tarnowska, 
but  I  had  ceased  to  be  that  simple,  ordinary,  peer- 
less being — an  honest  woman.  I  seemed  to  be 
surrounded  by  that  peculiar  atmosphere  which 
envelops  the  adventuress  as  in  an  invisible  mist — 
that  imperceptible  emanation  by  which  persons  of 
repute  are  instinctively  repelled,  and  which  draws 
within  its  ambit  the  idler  and  adventurer,  the 
depredator  and  outcast  of  society. 

I  had  accepted  money  to  which  I  had  no  claim. 
From  this  want  of  dignity  to  the  want  of  rectitude 
how  brief  is  the  step !  Between  indiscretion  and 
transgression  how  uncertain  is  the  boundary! 
And  suddenly  there  comes  a  day  when  one  awakes 
to  find  oneself — a  criminal! 

Ah,  then  we  stop  short  in  horror.    We  look  back 

162 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  163 

and  see  the  abyss,  the  impassable  gulf  that  hence- 
forward separates  us  from  the  distant,  candid 
summits  of  innocence.  How  has  it  been  possible 
for  us  to  travel  along  that  vertiginous  road  which 
knows  no  return?  "V^Hiat  evil  spirits  have  band- 
aged our  eyes,  have  placed  for  our  feet  bridges  and 
stepping  stones  so  that  almost  without  noticing  it 
w^e  have  crossed  ravines  and  precipices  which 
never  in  this  life  we  may  traverse  again?  We  can 
but  go  forward  and  downward :  we  can  turn  back 
no  more. 

Not  at  this  period  did  I  realize  the  irrevocable 
character  of  the  fate  I  had  chosen.  Rather  did  I 
seem  to  perceive  a  new  life  opening  out  before  me, 
leading  me  back  once  more  to  rectitude  and  honor, 
a  return  to  that  peaceful,  conventional  existence 
so  often  scorned  by  those  who  lead  it,  so  bitterly 
regretted  and  desired  by  those  who  have  forfeited 
and  forsaken  it. 

Prilukoff  still  held  me  bound  to  him  by  the  triple 
bonds  of  gratitude,  of  affection  and  of  complicity. 
But  Count  Kamarowsky  was  swaying  me  towards 
a  brighter  and  securer  future.  My  marriage  with 
Vassili,  so  long  merely  an  empty  and  nominal  tie, 
was  about  to  be  dissolved  by  a  decree  from  the 
Holy  Synod,  and  Kamarowsky  implored  me  to 
marry  him.    His  sadness  and  the  loneliness  of  his 


164  MAKIE  TARNOWSKA 

little  son  moved  me  deeply ;  the  thought  of  bring- 
ing light  and  joy  into  their  lives  was  unspeakably 
sweet  to  me,  while  for  my  part  I  rejoiced  to  think 
that  by  the  side  of  a  worthy  and  honorable  man 
I  might  take  my  place  in  the  world  once  more,  re- 
habilitated and  redeemed.  With  Prilukoff,  as  I 
could  see,  downfall  and  ruin  were  imminent.  He 
had  left  Moscow  for  a  few  days ;  but  he  would  re- 
turn, and  alas !  he  would  resume  his  dominion  over 
me.  I  knew  that  with  him  the  ultimate  plunge  into 
dishonor  was  inevitable. 

And  so  with  bitter  tears  of  repentance,  clasping 
the  two  fair  heads  of  Tioka  and  Grania  to  my 
breast,  I  vowed  to  Heaven  that  I  would  be  to  them 
both  a  tender  and  a  faithful  mother,  worthy  of  the 
lofty  duty  that  by  Divine  grace  was  to  be  once 
more  assigned  to  me. 

Count  Kamarowsky's  gratitude  and  joy  were 
boundless. 

"You  are  giving  back  life  to  me,"  he  said,  his 
kind  eyes  shining  with  emotion.  *'I  do  not  feel 
worthy  of  so  much  happiness." 

''Don't,  don't!"  I  said,  turning  away  my  face 
and  flushing  deeply  at  the  thought  of  my  recent 
unprincipled  life.    *  *  It  is  I,  I  who  am  unworthy — ' ' 

But  Kamarowsky  interrupted  me. 

*  *  Hush,  Marie,  hush.    I  know  that  you  have  suf  - 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  165 

fered  much  and  that  you  have  been  led  astray. 
But  let  the  dead  past  bury  the  past.  All  I  ask  of 
you  is  the  pure  white  page  of  the  future." 

''You  are  generous,  you  are  kind,"  I  said,  and 
tears  burned  in  my  eyes.  "But  let  me  tell  you, 
let  me  tell  you  all — " 

''Mura,"  he  said,  calling  me  by  the  tender  pet- 
name  of  my  childhood,  ''do  not  raise  impassable 
barriers  between  us.  What  I  have  no  knowledge 
of  does  not  exist  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  The 
unknown  is  but  a  shadow;  and  I  am  not  afraid 
of  shadows.  But  if  to  that  shadow  you  give  a 
living  shape  and  a  name,  it  will  rise  between  you 
and  me,  and  I  shall  not  be  able  to  clasp  you  in  my 
arms  until  I  have  destroyed  it.  Speak  if  you 
must.  But,  for  our  happiness,  it  were  far  better 
for  you  to  keep  silence — and  to  forget." 

"Ah,  you  are  right!  Let  there  be  no  more 
sorrow,  no  more  tragedies  around  me.  Take  me 
away  from  Moscow,  away  from  all  who  know  me. 
I  will  keep  silence,  and  forget. ' ' 

Our  departure  from  Moscow  was  like  a  flight. 
I  left  a  letter  for  Prilukoff,  entreating  him  to  for- 
give and  forget  me,  begging  him  not  to  debar  me 
from  taking  my  way  again  towards  safety  and 
rehabilitation.  I  expressed  to  him  my  sympathy, 
my  gratitude  and  regret;  and  I  implored  him  in 


166  MARIE  TAENOWSKA 

the  name  of  all  that  he  still  held  dear  or  sacred 
to  return  to  his  family  and  to  his  career,  to  the 
lofty  and  straightforward  course  of  honor  from 
which  I,  unhappy  creature  that  I  was,  had  unwit- 
tingly, unwillingly  turned  him  aside. 

Kamarowsky  took  us  to  the  Riviera — from  the 
snows  of  the  north  to  the  fragrant  orange-groves 
of  Nice  and  Hyeres,  The  tinkling  of  sleighs  glid- 
ing through  the  blue-cold  streets  of  Moscow  still 
seemed  to  ring  in  my  ears  when,  lo !  the  lazy,  sun- 
warm  silence  of  the  south  enwrapped  my  senses 
in  its  languorous  sweetness.  The  two  children, 
dazed  with  the  heat  and  the  blueness  around  them, 
stood  in  amazement,  with  hands  clasped  and 
mouths  open,  at  the  sight  of  the  golden  oranges 
and  the  huge  foliage  of  cacti  and  aloes,  thinking 
that  by  some  wonder-working  charm  they  had  been 
carried  into  fairyland. 

The  distant  sails,  aslant  on  the  radiant  indigo 
of  the  sea,  looked  like  white  butterflies  poised  on 
a  stupendous  flower  of  lapis  lazuli.  .  .  . 

For  three  brief  days  I  thought  that  fate  had  not 
overtaken  me,  and  that  my  sins  would  not  find  me 
out. 

My  sins  I  As  in  the  old  German  fable  the  chil- 
dren are  led  into  the  depths  of  a  forest,  and  left 
there  to  be  lost  and  forgotten — even  so  did  I  think 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  167 

that  my  sins  would  be  lost  and  forgotten,  even  so 
did  I  think  that  they  would  never  issue  again  from 
the  shade  in  which  I  had  hidden  them. 

Smiling,  I  moved  forward  to  meet  the  future, 
exalted  by  the  affection  of  an  honorable  man, 
purified  by  the  love  of  two  innocent  children. 

And  I  said  in  my  heart:  ''Fate  is  pitiful  and 
God  has  shown  mercy.  He  has  suspended  His 
judgment  and  has  allowed  me  one  last  chance.  I 
shall  not  be  found  wanting;  I  shall  be  worthy  of 
His  clemency." 

Then  lo !  at  a  turning  in  my  pathway,  the  for- 
gotten avengers  stand  before  me;  my  sins,  like 
spectral  furies,  have  found  me  out ! 

We  were  finishing  dinner  on  the  terrace  of  the 
Bellevue  at  Hyeres,  my  betrothed  and  I.  The 
children  had  said  good  night,  had  kissed  and  em- 
braced us  and  run  off,  chattering  and  twittering 
with  Elise,  to  their  rooms.  Kamarowsky  had  just 
lit  a  cigarette,  and  was  leaning  over  to  me  with  a 
word  of  tenderness,  when  I  perceived  immediately 
behind  him  at  a  neighboring  table — a  face,  a  grin- 
ning, fiendish  face. 

My  heart  bounded.    It  was  the  Scorpion ! 

Wliy  was  it  that  name  that  first  rushed  to  my 
mind?  Why  was  my  primitive  sense  of  fear  and 
repulsion  renewed  at  the  sight  of  him? 


168  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

Ah,  that  man  staring  and  grimacing  at  me  over 
Kamarowsky's  shoulder  was  not  the  friend,  the 
lover,  the  knight  of  the  heroic  Saga  whom  I  had 
known  and  trusted  in  my  days  of  desolation;  no, 
he  was  the  terrifying  and  truculent  monster  of  the 
octopus  story ;  he  was  the  Scorpion  who  years  ago 
had  filled  my  soul  with  dread. 

When  had  he  come?  How  long  had  he  been 
sitting  at  that  table,  watching  my  garrulous  glad- 
ness, my  timorous,  reawakened  happiness? 


XXVI 

I  GLANCED  at  him  apprehensively;  I  tried  to 
greet  him,  but  he  made  no  return  to  my  timid  sa- 
lute. He  was  smiling  with  a  crooked  mouth,  his 
arms  crossed  before  him  on  the  table.  He  was 
mocking  at  Kamarowsky  and  at  me,  and  my  terror 
seemed  greatly  to  amuse  him. 

I  rose  nervously,  wishing  to  retire,  but  Kama- 
rowsky detained  me. 

''What  is  troubling  you,  dearest?"  he  asked, 
noticing  my  frightened  eyes.  And  he  turned  to 
see  what  was  behind  him. 

I  trembled  in  prevision  of  a  stormy  scene.  But 
the  Count  did  not  recognize  Prilukoff ;  he  had  only 
seen  him  once  for  a  few  moments  that  evening  in 
my  drawing-room  when  he  had  brought  me  the 
mysterious  sealed  envelope.  Now  Donat  had  his 
hat  on  his  head;  and  besides,  with  that  sinister 
smirk  distorting  his  face  I  scarcely  recognized  him 
myself. 

As  soon  as  we  rose  from  the  table,  Prilukoff  did 
the  same,  and  passing  in  front  of  us  entered  the 
hotel  before  we  did.    I  trembled,  while  Kama- 

169 


i  i 


170  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

rowsky  witli  his  arm  in  mine  led  me,  talking 
placidly  and  affectionately,  towards  the  entrance 
of  the  hotel.  Doubtless  he  intended  to  accompany 
me  to  my  sitting-room.  But  what  if  we  found 
Prilukoff  there? 

It  was  Elise  Perrier  who  saved  me.  As  we 
stepped  out  of  the  lift  I  saw  her  coming  quickly 
down  the  corridor  to  meet  us. 

If  you  please,  madame,"  she  stammered, 
there  is  a  lady — a  visitor" — her  lips  were  white 
as  she  uttered  the  falsehood — "who  wishes  to  see 
madame.  She  is  waiting  here,  in  the  sitting-room, 
and  she  would  like  to — to  see  your  ladyship  alone. '  * 

*'Who  is  it?"  asked  the  Count. 

**I  think  it  is  the — that  relation  of  madame 's" — 
Elise  was  going  red  and  white  by  turns — "that 
relation  from — from  Otrada. ' ' 

"Ah,  I  know,"  I  stammered  breathlessly. 
"Aunt  Sonia,  perhaps."  Then  turning  to  Kama- 
rowsky:  "Will  you  wait  for  me  downstairs  in 
the  reading-room?" 

"Very  well.  Don't  be  long."  And  Count 
Kamarowsky  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  us. 

I  went  rapidly  on  in  front  of  Elise,  who,  hu- 
miliated by  the  falsehood  she  had  told,  hung  her 
head  in  shame  both  for  herself  and  for  me;  and 
I  entered  my  sitting-room. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  171 

On  the  coucli,  smoking  a  cigarette,  sat  Prilukoff. 
He  did  not  rise  when  I  entered.  He  sat  there 
smoking  and  looking  at  me  with  that  curious 
crooked  smile.    A  great  fear  clutched  my  heart. 

^'Donat,"  I  stammered,  ''why  did  you  not  let 
me  know  you  had  arrived?" 

He  made  no  answer ;  but  he  laughed  loudly  and 
coarsely,  and  my  fear  of  him  increased. 

''Did  you  receive  my  letter?  Are  you  cross 
with  me?" 

"Cross?"  he  shouted,  leaping  to  his  feet,  his 
eyes  glaring  like  those  of  a  madman.  "Cross? 
No,  I  am  not  cross. ' '  I  recoiled  from  him  in  ter- 
ror, but  he  followed  me,  pushing  his  distorted  face 
close  to  mine.  "You  ruin  a  man,  you  drive  him 
to  perdition,  and  then  you  inquire  whether  he  is 
cross.  You  take  an  honorable  man  in  your  little 
talons,  you  turn  and  twist  him  round  your  fingers, 
you  mold  him  and  transform  him  and  turn  him 
into  a  coward,  a  rogue,  and  a  thief ;  then  you  throw 
him  aside  like  a  dirty  rag — and  you  ask  him  if  he 
is  cross !  Ha,  ha !"  And  he  laughed  in  my  face ; 
he  was  ghastly  to  look  at,  livid  in  hue,  with  a  swol- 
len vein  drawn  like  a  cord  across  his  forehead. 

I  burst  into  tears.  "Why — why  do  you  say 
that?"  I  sobbed. 

"Why   do    I    say   that?"    stormed    Prilukoff. 


172  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

''Why?  Because  I  had  a  wife  and  I  betrayed  her 
for  you;  I  had  two  children  and  I  forsook  them 
for  you ;  I  had  a  career  and  I  lost  it  for  you ;  I  was 
a  man  of  honor  and  I  have  turned  thief  for  you. ' ' 

''Ob,  no,  no!"  I  stammered,  terrified. 

"What?  No?  No?"  he  exclaimed,  and  with 
trembling  hands  he  searched  his  breast-pocket  and 
drew  from  it  a  bulky  roll  of  banknotes.  "No? 
This  I  stole — and  this — and  this — and  this — ^be- 
cause you,  vampire  that  you  are,  needed  money." 

"But  I  never  told  you  to  steal — " 

"No,  indeed;  you  never  told  me  to  steal.  And 
where  was  I  to  get  the  money  from?  Where? 
Where?"  So  saying,  he  flung  the  banknotes  in 
my  face  and  they  fell  all  over  and  around  me. 
' '  You  did  not  tell  me  to  steal,  no.  But  you  wanted 
money,  money,  money.  And  now  you  have  got  it. 
Take  it,  take  it,  take  it ! " 

I  sobbed  despairingly.  "Oh,  no,  no,  Donat! 
Have  pity ! ' ' 

' '  I  have  had  pity, ' '  he  shouted.  ' '  I  have  always 
had  pity — nothing  but  pity.  You  were  ill  and 
miserable  and  alone,  and  I  left  my  home  in  order 
to  stay  with  you.  You  wept,  and  I  comforted  you. 
You  had  no  money,  and  I  stole  it  for  you.  How 
could  I  have  more  pity?"  He  was  himself  in 
tears.    "And  now,  because  I  am  degraded  and  a 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  173 

criminal  on  your  account,  you  leave  me,  you  fling 
me  aside  and  you  marry  an  honest  man.  And  I 
may  go  to  perdition  or  to  penal  servitude." 

*'Do  not  speak  like  that,  I  implore  you." 

''Ah,  but  Countess  Tarnowska,  if  I  go  to  penal 
servitude,  so  shall  you.  I  swear  it.  I  am  a  thief 
and  may  become  a  murderer;  but  if  I  go  to 
prison,  you  go  too."  He  collapsed  upon  the  sofa 
and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

As  I  stood  looking  down  upon  him  I  saw  as 
in  a  vision  the  somber  road  to  ruin  that  this  man 
had  traversed  for  my  sake,  and  I  fell  on  my  knees 
at  his  feet. 

*'Donat!  Donat!  Do  not  despair.  Forgive 
me,  forgive  me!  Go  back,  and  return  the  money 
you  have  taken;  go  back  and  become  an  honest 
man  again!" 

He  raised  a  haggard  face  in  which  his  wild, 
bloodshot  eyes  seemed  almost  phosphorescent. 

''There  is  no  going  back.  By  this  time  all  Mos- 
cow knows  that  I  have  absconded,  and  carried  off 
with  me  the  money  that  was  confided  to  my  care." 

"But  if  you  go  back  at  once  and  return  it!" 

"I  am  ruined  all  the  same.  I  am  utterly  lost 
and  undone.  Who  would  ever  place  their  trust 
in  me  again"?  Who  would  every  rely  upon  my 
honor  1    No,  I  am  a  criminal,  and  every  one  knows 


174  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

it.  The  brand  of  infamy  is  not  to  be  cancelled  by 
a  flash  of  tardy  remorse.  I  am  done  for.  I  am  a 
thief,  and  that  is  all  there  is  about  it." 

A  thief!  I  had  never  seen  a  thief.  In  my 
imagination  thieves  were  all  slouching,  unkempt 
roughs,  with  caps  on  their  heads,  and  colored 
handkerchiefs  tied  round  their  throats.  And 
here  was  this  gentleman  in  evening  dress — this 
gentleman  who  had  been  introduced  to  me  as  a 
celebrated  and  impeccable  lawyer,  who  had  been 
my  lover,  and  Tioka's  friend,  and  Elise's  Lohen- 
grin— and  he  was  a  thief ! 
I  could  not  believe  it. 

At  that  moment  a  voice  was  heard  outside.  It 
was  one  of  the  bell-boys  of  the  hotel;  he  was  pass- 
ing through  the  corridor  calling :  ' '  Forty-seven ! 
Number  forty-seven." 

Prilukoff  started.  '' Forty-seven  ?  That  is  the 
number  of  my  room.  Who  can  be  asking  for  me  1 
"Who  can  know  that  I  am  here  ? ' ' 

In  his  eyes  there  was  already  the  look  of  the 
fugitive,  the  startled  flash  of  fear  and  defiance  of 
the  hunted  quarry. 

I  looked  round  me  at  all  the  banknotes  scattered 
on  the  carpet,  and  I  felt  myself  turn  cold.  ' '  Hide 
them,  hide  them,"  I  whispered,  wringing  my 
hands. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  175 

^'Hide  tliem  yourself!"  lie  answered  scornfully. 

I  heard  footsteps  in  the  corridor.  They  drew 
near.  They  stopped.  Some  one  knocked  at  the 
door.  Terror  choked  my  throat  and  made  my 
knees  totter. 

I  stooped  in  haste  to  pick  up  all  the  money 
while  Prilukoff  still  looked  at  me  without  moving. 
I  held  it  out  to  him  in  a  great  heap  of  crumpled 
paper.     But  still  he  did  not  stir. 

Again  the  knocking  was  repeated.  Who  could 
it  be?  Kamarowsky?  The  police?  I  opened  a 
desk  and  flung  the  bundle  of  banknotes  into  it. 

Then  I  said,  ''Come  in." 


XXVII 

It  was  only  a  saucy  little  page-boy  in  red 
uniform. 

' '  If  you  please,  Count  Kamarowsky  sends  word 
that  he  is  waiting  for  you. ' ' 

"Say  that  I  shall  be  down  directly." 

"No,"  contradicted  Prilukoff;  "send  word  that 
you  are  not  going  down." 

"But  then  he  will  come  here." 

* '  You  will  say  that  you  cannot  receive  him. ' ' 

And  that  was  what  took  place.  And  not  on  that 
evening  only.  Prilukoff  installed  himself,  during 
long  days  and  evenings,  in  my  apartments,  and 
refused  to  go  away.  Very  often  he  did  not  even 
allow  me  to  go  out  of  the  room. 

Then  came  Count  Kamarowsky  knocking  at  the 
door. 

"No!  no!  You  cannot  come  in!"  cried  Elise 
Perrier,  pale  and  trembling,  leaning  against  the 
locked  door. 

* '  But  why  ?    Why  ?    What  has  happened  ? ' ' 

"Nothing  has  happened.  Madame  is  not  feel- 
ing well,"  Elise  would  reply,  in  quavering  tones. 

"But  that  is  all  the  more  reason  why  I  should 

176 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  177 

see  her, ' '  protested  the  Count.    ^ '  I  must  see  her ! ' ' 

"  It  is  impossible ! ' '  And  Elise,  whom  fear  ren- 
dered well-nigh  voiceless,  would  roll  towards  me 
her  round,  despairing  eyes. 

Then  the  Count  would  speak  to  me  through  the 
closed  door,  entreating  and  arguing;  and  every 
time  he  used  a  tender  expression  Prilukoff,  who 
held  me  fast,  pinched  my  arm. 

'^Mura,  Mura,  let  me  in.  Let  me  see  you  for 
a  moment.  You  know  how  I  love  you  (pinch) ; 
it  is  cruel  to  lock  me  out  as  if  I  were  a  stranger. 
If  you  are  ill  let  me  take  care  of  you,  with  all  my 
tenderness  (pinch),  with  all  my  love  (pinch) — " 

In  feeble  accents  I  would  reply :  ' '  Forgive  me 
— I  shall  soon  be  better — do  not  trouble  about  me. ' ' 

^'But  what  is  the  matter?  Why  do  you  not 
want  to  see  me?     Do  you  not  love  me  any  more?" 

'^Oh,  yes,  I  love — (pinch).  Please,  please  go 
away.    I  shall  come  down  as  soon  as  I  can." 

Then  I  could  hear  his  slowly  retreating  foot- 
steps, while  Prilukoff  glared  at  me  and,  on  general 
principles,  pinched  my  arm  again. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  I  could 
conceal  Prilukoff 's  presence  from  little  Tioka. 

One  day  the  child  caught  sight  of  him  seated  on 
the  terrace,  and,  with  a  wild  cry  of  delight,  started 
to  run  towards  him.    I  caught  him  in  my  arms. 


178  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

"No,  darling,  no!  That  is  not  Prilukoff.  It  is 
some  one  very  mucli  like  liim;  but  it  is  not  our 
friend. ' ' 

And  as  the  man,  with  scowling  countenance, 
was  gazing  out  at  the  sea,  and  paid  no  heed  to  us, 
Tioka  believed  me,  and,  with  a  little  sigh  of  regret, 
ran  in  search  of  his  playmate  Grania. 

The  life  Prilukoff  led  me  in  this  grotesque  and 
unbearable  situation  is  impossible  to  describe. 
My  days  were  passed  in  an  agony  of  terror. 
When  I  dined  with  Kamarowsky,  Prilukoff  invari- 
ably took  a  seat  at  the  next  table,  and  I  might 
almost  say  that  it  was  he  who  regulated  our  con- 
versation. If  any  subject  were  raised  that  was 
distasteful  to  him — my  approaching  marriage  to 
Kamarowsky,  for  instance,  or  some  tender  remi- 
niscence which  my  betrothed  loved  to  recall — 
Prilukoff,  at  the  adjoining  table,  made  savage 
gestures  which  terrified  me  and  attracted  the  at- 
tention of  all  the  other  guests.  He  would  shake 
his  fists  at  me,  glare  at  me  with  terrible  eyes,  and, 
if  I  pretended  not  to  notice  him,  he  upset  the  cruet- 
stand  or  dropped  his  knife  and  fork  noisily  to 
attract  my  attention.  He  would  stare  at  the  un- 
conscious, slightly  bald  head  of  Kamarowsky,  and 
imitate  his  gestures  with  a  demoniacal  grin. 
The  guests  of  the  hotel  thought  him  insane,  and 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  179 

he  certainly  behaved  as  if  he  were.  I  myself  have 
often  thought :  ' '  Surely  he  is  a  madman ! ' '  when 
I  came  upon  him  suddenly,  hidden  behind  the  cur- 
tains in  my  sitting-room,  or  crouching  in  a  dark 
corner,  or  lying  on  my  bed  smoking  cigarettes.  I 
felt  that  my  nerves  and  my  reason  were  giving 
way. 

''AVliat  do  you  want  of  me,  you  cruel  manT* 
I  sobbed.  ''What  am  I  to  do?  Do  you  wish  me 
to  tell  everything  to  Kamarowsky?  To  break  off 
the  marriage  and  return  to  Moscow  with  you?" 

''We  cannot  return  to  Moscow,  and  you  know 
it,"  growled  Prilukoff. 

' '  Somewhere  else,  then.  Anywhere !  I  will  go 
wherever  you  like,  I  will  do  whatever  you  like. 
Anything,  anything,  rather  than  endure  this  tor- 
ture any  longer." 

"For  the  present  we  stay  here,"  declared  Prilu- 
koff, who  seemed  to  enjoy  my  anguish.  "And  as 
for  the  future, ' '  he  added,  rolling  his  terrible  eyes, 
"you  can  leave  that  to  me." 

Sometimes  he  forbade  me  to  go  out  with  Kama- 
rowsky.  At  other  times  he  followed  us  in  the 
streets,  torturing  me  behind  the  unconscious  back 
of  my  betrothed,  who  marveled  and  grieved  at  my 
extraordinary  and  frequently  absurd  behavior. 

Early  one  morning,  as  I  looked  out  of  my  win- 


180  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

dow,  I  saw  Kamarowsky  standing  on  tlie  terrace, 
gazing  thoughtfully  out  at  the  sea.  I  ran  down 
to  him.  We  were  alone.  "Paul,"  I  whispered 
hurriedly, ' '  let  us  go  away  from  here ;  let  us  leave 
quietly,  to-day,  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one. ' ' 

He  laughed.  ''What  a  romantic  idea!  Do  you 
not  like  this  place  1    Are  you  not  happy  here  ? ' ' 

' '  No,  Paul,  no !  There  is  some  one  spying  upon 
me." 

''Spying  upon  you?"  he  repeated,  greatly 
astonished.  "Is  that  the  reason  of  your  strange 
behavior?" 

"Yes,  yes,  but  do  not  ask  me  any  more  ques- 
tions." 

"Who  is  it?    I  must  know  who  it  is." 

"No,  Paul.     I  will  tell  you  later  on.    Hush!" 

"You  are  a  fanciful  creature,"  he  said,  laughing 
and  patting  my  cheek. 

I  felt  hurt  at  his  calm  acceptance  of  what  I  had 
told  him,  and  wondered  that  he  did  not  insist  upon 
knowing  more.  I  reflected  in  my  folly  that  if  he 
really  loved  me  he  ought  to  have  been  less  satisfied 
and  secure.  I  did  not  understand — alas !  I  never 
understood — ^his  guileless  and  noble  trust  in  me. 
The  insensate  and  exacting  passion  of  others  who 
until  now  had  dominated  my  life  had  spoiled  me 
for    all    normal    affection.    Hypersensitive    and 


COUNT    PAUL    KAMAROWSKY 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  181 

overwrought,  I  myself  suffered  unless  I  caused 
suffering  to  those  I  loved;  nor  did  I  ever  feel  sure 
of  their  love  unless  they  doubted  mine. 

The  love  that  varies  not  from  day  to  day, 
A  tranquil  love,  unruffled  and  serene — 

was  not  the  love  I  knew.  My  storm-tossed  heart 
did  not  recognize  it.  Neither  on  that  day  nor  ever 
could  I  bring  myself  to  believe  that  Paul  Kama- 
rowsky  really  loved  me. 

During  those  few  moments  that  we  were  alone 
together  on  the  terrace,  we  arranged  that  I  should 
start  with  Tioka  and  Elise  that  very  evening,  dur- 
ing the  dinner  hour,  leaving  all  our  trunks  behind 
us  for  my  betrothed  to  see  to  after  we  had  left. 
He  could  join  us  three  days  later  in  Vienna,  and 
then  we  should  all  proceed  to  Orel,  where  impor- 
tant affairs  claimed  his  presence. 

Half-way  through  dinner,  as  had  been  arranged 
(and  as  usual  Prilukoff  sat  at  a  table  next  to  ours), 
Elise  entered  the  dining-room  timidly  and  came  to 
our  table. 

"I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon.  Master  Tioka  is 
outside  and  wishes  to  say  good-night." 

''Bring  Master  Tioka  in,"  I  said,  trying  to 
speak  naturally  and  raising  my  voice  a  little  so 
that  Prilukoff  should  hear. 


182  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

'*I  ain  sorry,  my  lady,  but  he  refuses  to  come," 
and  Elise  hung  her  head  as  she  spoke  these  words ; 
the  treason  we  were  perpetrating  on  Lohengrin 
grieved  her  even  more,  than  the  tortures  that 
Lohengrin  had  inflicted  upon  me. 

"Pray  excuse  me  a  moment,"  I  said  to  Count 
Kamarowsky,  and  rose  from  the  table.  ''I  shall 
be  back  at  once. ' ' 

No  sooner  was  I  outside  the  dining-room  than 
Elise  threw  my  traveling  cloak  round  me.  A 
motor-car  was  throbbing  at  the  door,  and  in  it 
with  beaming  face  sat  Tioka  surrounded  by  our 
hand-bags  and  dressing-cases,  shawls  and  hats. 

''Wliat  are  we  doing?"  he  cried  gleefully. 
''Are  we  running  away?" 

''Yes,  darling,"  and  I  clasped  him  to  my  heart, 
as  I  sank  into  the  seat  beside  him.  The  motor 
was  already  gliding  through  the  twilight  roads  to- 
wards Cannes. 

' '  But  why  1  Why  are  we  running  away  ?  Have 
we  stolen  something?" 

At  those  words  my  heart  stopped  beating.  I 
suddenly  remembered  Prilukoff 's  ill-gotten  bank- 
notes. 

"Elise!"  I  gasped;  "in  the  desk  in  my  sitting- 
room — there  was  some  money." 

"Yes,  madame." 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  183 

''Wliat  did  you  do  witli  it!" 

*'It  is  quite  safe,  madame.     I  have  taken  it." 

''You  have  taken  it!" 

''Yes,  madame.  Here  it  is."  And  with  satis- 
fied hand  Elise  patted  a  black  leather  satchel  that 
lay  in  her  lap. 

With  a  sob  I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands. 

Indeed,  we  had  stolen  something ! 


xxvni 

As  soon  as  we  reached  the  frontier  I  telegraphed 
to  Prilukoff.  I  wanted  to  send  Elise  back  to 
Hyeres  with  the  money,  but  she  refused  to  leave 
me. 

"What  if  Mr.  Prilukoff  were  to  kill  me,"  she 
cried.  '  ^  Then  what  would  your  ladyship  and  poor 
little  Master  Tioka  do,  all  alone  in  the  world?" 

''But  my  good  Ehse,  why  on  earth  should  Mr. 
Prilukoff  kill  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  sighed  Elise.  ''But  he  has 
become  so  strange  of  late — "  and  after  a  pause, 
she  added,  under  her  breath:  "We  have  all  be- 
come very  strange." 

It  was  true.  I  could  not  but  admit  it.  We  were 
"very  strange."  We  were  not  at  all  like  other 
people.  The  people  that  we  met  on  our  journeys 
and  in  hotels,  for  instance,  all  took  an  interest  in 
external  things — in  the  surrounding  landscape,  or 
in  works  of  art  and  monuments  and  cathedrals. 
As  for  us,  we  never  spoke  about  monuments.  We 
never  entered  a  cathedral.    We  took  no  interest 

184. 


MAEIE  TAENOWSKA  185 

whatever  in  anything  beyond  our  own  dolorous 
souls.  We  were  even  as  those  who  travel  with 
an  invalid,  watching  him  only,  caring  for  and 
thinking  of  nothing  else.  The  invalid  I  traveled 
with  was  my  own  sick  soul. 

The  least  peculiar  among  us  was  Count  Kama- 
rowsky.  Yet  even  he,  I  fancy,  was  not  quite  like 
other  people.  His  was  not  a  strong  nature,  like 
that  of  some  men  I  had  known.  Perhaps  the 
Slav  blood  is  responsible  for  much  that  is  abnor- 
mal and  unconventional.  Surely  we  are  from  the 
inmost  depths  of  our  nature  strangely  removed 
from  the  Teutonic,  the  Anglo-Saxon  and  even  the 
Latin  races,  and  our  thoughts  and  actions  must 
frequently  appear  to  them  singular  and  incom- 
prehensible. 

As  for  Paul  Kamarowsky,  his  dread  of  suffering 
was  so  great  that  he  preferred  to  know  nothing 
that  might  cause  him  distress.  In  fear  lest  he 
should  see  aught  that  might  displease  him,  he 
chose  to  shut  his  eyes  to  facts  and  truths,  pre- 
ferring voluntarily  to  tread  the  easy  paths  of  a 
fool's  paradise.  I  longed  to  open  my  heart  to 
him,  to  unburden  my  travailed  soul  and  clear  my 
sullied  conscience  by  a  full  confession;  I  was 
ready  to  abide  by  the  result,  even  if  it  meant  the 
loss   of  my  last  chance   of  rehabilitation,   even 


186  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

should  I  forfeit  thereby  all  hope  of  marriage  with 
a  man  of  honor,  rank  and  repute.  But  he  closed 
my  lips;  he  sealed  my  heart;  he  firmly  avoided 
all  confidences  and  disclosures. 

"Mura,"  he  said,  "my  life  and  yours  have  been 
too  full  of  errors  and  of  sorrow.  Do  not  embitter 
this,  our  hour  of  joy.  The  past  is  buried;  let  it 
rest.  Do  not  drag  what  is  dead  to  the  light  of 
day  again." 

I  bowed  my  head  in  silence.  But  in  the  depths 
of  my  conscience  I  knew  that  my  past  had  been 
buried  alive. 

Not  in  my  spirit  alone  did  I  suffer  agonies  at 
this  period;  my  frail  body  was  racked  with 
disease  and  my  sufferings  were  continuous  and 
intense.  Day  by  day  I  felt  my  strength  decline, 
I  saw  myself  wax  thinner  and  paler;  rarely  in- 
deed did  an  hour  pass  that  I  could  count  free 
from  pain.  The  deep-seated  ill  that  since  the 
birth  of  my  little  daughter  Tania  had  struck  its 
fiery  roots  into  my  inmost  being  now  bore  its  toxic 
fruits,  slowly  diffusing  its  poison  through  my 
veins.  Sometimes  the  pangs  I  suffered  were  so 
acute  that  I  cried  out  in  anguish,  while  beads  of 
cold  perspiration  started  to  my  brow.  But  as  a 
rule  I  was  tortured  by  a  deep,  dull,  perpetual  ache, 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  187 

a  sense  of  utter  weakness  and  weariness  that 
stifled  all  liope  in  me  and  all  desire  to  live. 

Oh,  daughters  of  Eve,  my  purer  and  stronger 
sisters,  women  who  have  not  transgressed — you 
whose  hatred  and  scorn  have  overwhelmed  me, 
you  whose  white  hands  have  been  so  quick  to 
throw  the  wounding  stone — ^you  alone  can  com- 
prehend the  agony  that  racked  my  frame,  the 
flaming  sword  that  pierced  me,  the  sacred  ill  of 
womanhood  that  girt  my  body  as  with  a  sash  of 
fire.  You  who  in  such  dark  hours  can  shelter 
your  sufferings  in  the  protecting  shadow  of  your 
home,  you  who  can  seek  refuge  in  a  husband's 
tenderness  and  hide  your  stricken  brow  upon  a 
faithful  breast,  can  you  not  summon  one  throb  of 
sorrow  to  your  womanly  hearts,  one  gleam  of  pity 
to  your  gentle  eyes,  when  you  think  of  the  tor- 
tures I  dragged  from  hotel  to  hotel,  seeking  to 
conceal  my  martyrdom  from  the  inquisitive  or 
indifferent  gaze  of  strangers,  not  daring  to  confide 
in  the  man  who  loved  me  but  who  yet  was  almost 
a  stranger?  .  .  . 

Who  can  describe  the  minor  and  yet  genuine 
torment  of  the  tight  garments  cramping  the  ach- 
ing body ;  the  weight  of  the  ornate  head-dress  on 
the  throbbing  brow;  the  irony  of  rouge  and 
cosmetics  on  the  ashen  cheeks:  and  the  nauseat- 


188  MAEIE  TAENOWSI^ 

ing  distaste  for  the  ricli  viands  that  one  pretends 
to  enjoy  while  the  noise  of  voices  and  music 
pierces  your  brain,  and  the  glaring  electric  lights 
stab  your  aching  eyes  like  a  hundred  knife- 
thrusts? 

How  often,  on  returning  from  some  brilliant 
banquet  to  the  silence  and  solitude  of  a  desolate 
hotel  bedroom,  have  I  wept  aloud  with  vain 
longing  for  one  great  joy  denied  to  me,  one 
supreme  privilege  of  a  happy  woman :  that  of  be- 
ing weary,  ill,  and  miserable — and  yet  loved  all 
the  same !  How  keenly  have  I  envied  some  women 
I  have  known — ^women  who  were  not  beautiful,  not 
brilliant  and  not  young,  but  by  whose  sick-bed  in 
their  hour  of  pain  a  husband  watched  in  tender- 
ness and  pity,  faithful  throughout  the  years, 
throughout  the  changes  that  time  brings,  faithful 
to  the  sad  and  pallid  woman  who  had  the  right  to 
lay  her  faded  cheek  upon  his  breast. 

None,  none  of  those  who  vowed  they  loved  me, 
would  have  loved  me  thus!  Not  Vassili,  not 
Bozevsky,  not  Stahl,  not  Kamarowsky.  Prilukoff 
perhaps?    Who  knows? 

But  Prilukoff  was  a  thief,  a  fugitive,  a  criminal; 
and  day  and  night  I  prayed  that  he  might  not 
cross  my  path  again. 

He  had  not  replied  to  my  agitated  telegram 


MAEIE  TAKNOWSKA  189 

informing  him  that  Elise  had  unwittingly  taken 
the  money  away.  Nor  did  he,  as  I  thought  he 
would,  join  us  in  Vienna  where  we  stayed  several 
days,  expecting  yet  dreading  his  arrival. 

We  were  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  his 
stolen  money.  We  did  not  dare  to  send  it  to  him 
at  Hyeres,  where  I  knew  he  had  been  staying 
under  an  assumed  name  and  in  constant  terror 
of  discovery.  We  did  not  dare  to  leave  it  in  our 
rooms  at  the  hotel.  Elise  carried  it  about  with  her 
day  and  night  in  the  hated  black  leather  satchel, 
which  had  become  to  us  a  nightmare,  an  incubus, 
an  obsession.  With  a  bitter  smile  I  recalled  the 
story  of  the  English  hunters  in  India  who  suc- 
ceeded in  capturing  that  most  precious  and  sacred 
among  all  animals :  a  white  elephant.  And  having 
captured  it  they  knew  not  what  to  do  with  it. 
They  trailed  it  after  them  across  land  and  sea — 
ponderous,  slow,  magnificent;  and  nobody  wanted 
it,  and  nobody  knew  what  to  do  with  it  nor  how 
to  get  rid  of  it.  Prilukoff 's  stolen  money  was  in- 
deed a  white  elephant  for  us. 

Kamarowsky  with  his  little  son  had  joined  us 
in  Vienna,  bringing  all  our  luggage  with  him.  He 
was  as  boisterous  as  a  schoolboy  out  for  a  holi- 
day. 

''There  are  no  spies  here,  are  there,  Mura?" 


190  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

he  laughed,  kissing  my  cheek  loudly.  '*No  spies 
to  drive  us  away!" 

Again  I  was  hurt  that  he  should  thus  make  light 
of  the  mysteries  of  my  existence.  Should  he  not 
have  demanded  an  explanation  of  my  flight  from 
Hyeres  ?  Should  he  not  have  insisted  upon  know- 
ing who  had  followed  me  there?  What  love  was 
this  that  could  voluntarily  blindfold  itself  and 
evade  all  explanations  I 

Not  this,  not  this  was  the  love  I  had  dreamed 
of  and  hoped  for,  the  steadfast  refuge  for  my 
wavering  spirit,  the  longed-for  haven  for  my 
storm-tossed  soul. 

We  proceeded  almost  immediately  to  Orel. 
At  this  period  I  possessed  no  money  at  all  of  my 
own;  what  little  I  had  had  when  I  left  Moscow 
had  been  spent;  but  not  for  a  moment  did  I  en- 
tertain the  thought  of  touching  Prilukoff's  ill- 
gotten  wealth.  Paul  Kamarowsky  insisted  upon 
providing  all  our  traveling  and  hotel  expenses; 
but  it  was  embarrassing  to  be  unable  to  tip  a  serv- 
ant or  to  pay  for  even  the  smallest  trifle  that 
Tioka  or  I  might  want. 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  lay  frankly  before  my 
betrothed  my  deplorable  financial  situation.  And 
I  did  so  on  the  journey  to  Orel.    He  seemed  much 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  191 

amused  at  my  confession ;  and  the  fact  of  our  utter 
dependence  upon  him  seemed  to  afford  him  the 
greatest  pleasure. 

He  tilled  my  purse  with  gold,  and  made  me 
promise  that  I  would  always  ask  him  for  anything 
I  might  need  or  desire. 

How  well  I  remember  our  arrival  at  Orel!  It 
was  a  radiant  afternoon  in  October.  Count  Kama- 
rowsky  accompanied  us  to  our  hotel,  where  flower- 
filled  apartments  awaited  us;  then  he  left  us  at 
once  to  go  in  search  of  a  young  friend  of  his,  the 
son  of  the  Governor  of  Orel,  who  had  promised  to 
see  to  our  passports  as  soon  as  we  arrived. 

I  was  alone  in  our  drawing-room  when  Elise 
knocked  at  the  door. 

''The  children  would  like  to  go  out;  they  say 
they  feel  cramped  from  the  journey,"  she  said. 
''If  madame  allows,  I  will  take  them  into  the  park; 
it  is  just  opposite  the  hotel,"  she  added. 

"Certainly,  Elise." 

A  moment  later  Tioka  and  Grania,  ready  to  go 
out,  came  running  to  embrace  me,  and  behind  them 
Elise  reappeared. 

"If  madame  permits,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"I  might  perhaps  leave  'it'  here  I" 

"It"  was  the  black  leather  satchel — our  white 
elephant. 


192  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

''Yes,  yes;  leave  it,"  I  said. 
And  she  carried  it  into  my  bedroom  and  placed 
it  on  the  dressing-table. 


XXIX 

I  STEPPED  out  upon  the  balcony  and  watched 
the  children  cross  the  sunlit  square;  they  turned 
and  waved  their  hands  to  me;  then  I  saw  them 
enter  the  park  and  scamper  down  the  shady  ave- 
nue, the  faithful  Elise  trotting  quickly  in  their 
wake. 

I  remained  on  the  balcony  wrapped  in  peaceful 
thoughts,  glad  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the  autumn 
sun  on  my  shoulders  and  the  coolness  of  the 
autumn  breeze  on  my  cheeks.  A  wave  of  thank- 
fulness came  over  me ;  repentance  for  all  my  past 
doubts  and  transgressions  flooded  my  heart. 

How  could  I  ever  have  doubted  Paul  Kamarow- 
sky 's  love  ?  Was  not  the  absolute  faith  he  reposed 
in  me — the  blind  unquestioning  faith  that  in  my 
folly  I  had  often  resented — was  it  not  after  all  the 
highest  homage  that  a  noble  heart  could  bestow? 
Henceforth  the  aim  of  my  life  should  be  to  render 
myself  worthy  of  his  trust  and  love.  In  utter 
gratitude  and  devotion  my  heart  went  out  to  him 
who  was  about  to  place  in  my  keeping  the  honor  of 

193 


194  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

his  unsullied  name,  and  the  care  of  his  motherless 
child.  I  clasped  my  hands  and  breathed  a  fervent 
prayer  to  Heaven,  a  prayer  that  I  might  deserve 
the  happiness  that  was  in  store  for  me. 

A  slight  sound  startled  me  from  my  reverie. 
It  was  Kamarowsky  who,  having  returned  and 
not  finding  me  in  the  drawing-room,  had  knocked 
at  my  bedroom  door.  Eeceiving  no  reply  he  en- 
tered. I  left  the  balcony,  and  closing  the  window 
after  me,  stepped  into  the  room. 

Kamarowsky  was  standing  in  front  of  the  dress- 
ing-table holding  the  black  leather  satchel  in  his 
hand. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked  casually.  *'Is  it 
yours?" 

The  pitiless  light  from  the  window  struck  me 
full  in  the  face,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  turning  pale. 
*'No — no — "    I  stammered.     "It  is  not  mine." 

"I  thought  not,"  he  said,  turning  it  round  and 
round.  "I  did  not  remember  seeing  it.  We  had 
better  send  it  down  to  the  bureau  of  the  hotel." 
And  he  stepped  forward  to  touch  the  bell. 

"No,  no!"  I  cried,  "it  belongs  to  Elise." 

"Why  does  Elise  leave  her  things  in  your 
room?"  Then  noticing  my  pallor  and  agitation 
he  exclaimed:  "Why,  dearest?  What  is  wrong 
with  you?    You  look  quite  white." 


1    Sli'.ri'KD    OUT    UPON    THE    BALCONY. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  195 

*'It  is  nothing,  nothing,"  I  said,  attempting  to 
smile ;  and  I  sat  down  with  my  back  to  the  light. 
I  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

He  bent  over  me  with  tender  solicitude.  ''Are 
you  feeling  ilU" 

"Slightly — it  will  pass — it  is  nothing.  The 
fatigue  of  the  journey  perhaps,"  and  I  caressed 
the  kind  face  that  bent  over  me  full  of  affectionate 
concern. 

He  turned  and  rang  the  bell. 

A  waiter  appeared.  ''Bring  some  brandy," 
ordered  Kamarowsky.  "Make  haste.  The  lady 
is  not  well." 

The  waiter  returned  promptly  and  placed  the 
tray  on  the  table;  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the 
room  Count  Kamarowsky,  who  was  pouring  out 
the  brandy,  said  to  him:  "Wait  a  moment,  you 
can  take  that  satchel  upstairs  to  the  maid's  apart- 
ment. ' ' 

I  sprang  to  my  feet.  "No — leave  it,"  I  cried, 
taking  it  from  the  waiter's  hand.  The  man  bowed 
and  left  the  room. 

Kamarowsky  seemed  astonished  at  my  behavior. 
"Wliat  is  the  matter?"  be  asked.  "Why  are  you 
so  agitated?" 

"I  am  not — I  am  not  agitated  at  all,"  I 
stammered,  trying  to  control  my  features,  and 


196  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

holding  the  odious  white  elephant  in  my  trembling 
hands. 

''What  on  earth  is  in  that  bag?"  asked  the 
Count. 

''Nothing — nothing,"  I  said,  with  a  vacuous, 
senseless  smile. 

"Come,  now!  It  is  full  of  papers,"  laughed 
Kamarowsky,  putting  out  his  hand  and  pressing 
the  satchel  between  his  fingers.  "Confess,  what 
are  theyf     Love-letters?" 

I  contrived  to  answer  his  jest  with  a  smile: 
"You  have  guessed  right,"  I  said. 

"They  are  Elise's,  I  hope — not  yours!"  he 
added,  half  smiling  and  half  distrustful. 

I  laughed.  "Elise's,  of  course";  and  with  a 
deep  sigh  of  relief  I  sank  upon  a  chair,  feeling 
that  the  danger  was  past.  But  my  heart  had  not 
yet  resumed  its  normal  pulsation  when  the  door 
opened  and  the  unwitting  Elise  appeared  on  the 
threshold. 

"We  have  returned,  my  lady,  and  the  children 
have  gone  upstairs." 

Kamarowsky  jestingly  took  the  satchel  from  my 
hand  and  dangled  it  in  the  air. 

"Ah,  Ehse!    What  have  we  got  in  here?" 

Elise  rolled  her  eyes  wildly,  and  a  scarlet  blush 
mounted  to  her  face;  Elise's  blushes  were  always 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  197 

painful  to  see ;  now  her  face  was  of  a  deep  damask 
hue. 

The  Count  laughed.  ' '  So  this  is  where  you  keep 
your  love-letters,  is  it?" 

' '  Oh,  no,  sir, ' '  exclaimed  Elise,  blushing  till  her 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

' '  Wliat  ?     Is  this  satchel  not  yours  ? ' ' 

*'0h,  no,  sir! — I  mean — yes,  sir,"  stuttered 
Ehse. 

Kamarowsky  looked  at  her,  and  then  at  me. 
Seeing  the  expression  of  our  faces  the  laughter 
faded  from  his  lips. 

''Come,  Elise;  tell  me  whose  it  is,  and  what  it 
contains." 

I  attempted  to  make  a  sign  to  her,  hut  the  tall, 
broad  figure  of  Count  Kamarowsky  stood  between 
us. 

I  rose  with  a  sigh  of  despair,  acquiescing  in  my 
fate.     Now — let  happen  what  may. 

"What  letters  are  they  I"  insisted  Kamarow- 
sky. 

I  heard  the  hapless  Elise  floundering  in  the 
quicksands  of  falsehood;  finally  she  let  her- 
self drift — a  helpless  wreck  on  the  rock  of 
truth. 

''It  is  not  letters,  it  is  money,"  she  said  at 
last. 


198  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

' '  Money  1    Money  of  yours  ? ' ' 

''No." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Then  Kamarowsky 
said:  "I  do  not  believe  you.  I  wish  to  see  what 
it  contains." 

No  one  answered  him. 

** Where  is  the  key?" 

Again  there  was  silence. 

I  heard  a  slight  jingling  sound;  Kamarowsky 
was  searching  in  his  pockets  for  a  penknife.  Then 
he  said  to  Elise:    ''You  can  go." 

Elise  went  slowly  and  reluctantly  from  the  room. 
Then  I  heard  a  faint  tearing  and  crackling: 
Kamarowsky  had  cut  through  the  leather  of  the 
satchel.  Now  the  rustling  of  banknotes  told  me 
that  he  was  smoothing  them  out  on  the  table,  and 
counting  them. 

A  few  moments  passed. 

"Thirty-five  thousand  rubles,"  said  Paul  Kama- 
rowsky slowly.  "I  cannot  understand  why  you 
should  have  told  me  you  were  penniless."  There 
was  an  icy  coldness  in  his  voice  such  as  I  had  never 
heard  before. 

"The  money  is  not  mine,"  I  said,  in  trembling 
tones. 

"Whose  is  it!" 

How  was  I  to  answer  him?    Could  I  betray 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  199 

Prilukoff?  And,  with  him,  myself?  I  decided  to 
tell  what  was,  intrinsically,  the  truth. 

"I  do  not  know  whom  it  belongs  to." 

Once  more  there  was  silence.  I  wondered  what 
he  would  do?  Would  he  insult  me?  Would  he 
raise  his  voice  in  bitter  accusation  and  reproof? 

No.  The  silence  remained  unbroken.  Kama- 
rowsky  left  the  room  without  a  word. 

Ah !  I  was  still  in  the  grip  of  the  octopus ;  its 
tentacles  bound  and  crushed  me  still.  Even  from 
afar  Prilukoff  guided  my  destinies,  drove  my  frail 
barque  into  storm  and  disaster. 

With  trembling  hands  I  gathered  up  the  scat- 
tered banknotes  and  thrust  them  back  into  the  ex- 
ecrated leather  bag.  Ah,  if  only  I  could  have  freed 
myself  from  this  nightmare  burden,  if  only  I  could 
have  returned  the  money  to  Prilukoff !  But  how  ? 
Where  to?  At  the  Bellevue,  in  Hyeres,  he  had 
called  himself  Zeiler.  But  now  where  was  he? 
Under  what  name  was  he  hiding?  How  could  I, 
without  warning,  send  him  such  a  sum  of  money? 
Where  could  I  write  to  him? 

No ;  fate  had  doomed  me  to  wander  through  the 
world  carrying  with  me  the  hated  money  in  Elise's 
abominable  satchel!  At  the  bitterness  of  this 
thought  I  dropped  my  face  in  my  hands  and  wept. 

I  did  not  hear  any  one  knock  at  the  door;  nor 


200  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

did  I  hear  the  door  open.  When,  still  shaken  with 
sobs,  I  raised  my  tear-stained  face,  I  beheld  stand- 
ing on  the  threshold  a  stranger — a  slender,  fair- 
haired  youth.  He  was  gazing  at  me  with  com- 
passionate eyes,  full  of  confusion  at  having  found 
me  in  tears. 

''Pardon  me,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  soft 
and  musical. 

''Whom  do  you  want?" 

"I  was  looking  for  Count  Kamarowsky,"  he 
replied.  "He  has  invited  me  to  dine  with  him." 
There  was  a  pause.  "My  name  is  Nicolas  Nau- 
moff . ' ' 

"My  name  is  Marie  Tarnowska."  And  I  gave 
him  my  hand. 


XXX 

Count  Kamarowsky  came  in  shortly  afterwards. 
He  was  glooniy  and  morose;  but  on  seeing  bis 
friend,  whom  be  bad  that  morning  invited  to  dine 
with  us,  he  made  a  heroic  effort  to  keep  up  an  ap- 
pearance of  good  temper  and  hospitality. 

But  his  grief  and  anger  were  only  too  appar- 
ent. He  sat  beside  me  at  table  without  speaking 
to  me,  nor  did  he  ever  turn  his  eyes  in  my  direc- 
tion. 

Our  guest  seemed  distressed  and  amazed  at  his 
behavior,  and — doubtless  remembering  my  recent 
tears — he  gazed  at  me  with  his  light-brown  eyes 
eloquent  of  sympathy  and  compassion. 

Once  or  twice  I  addressed  a  remark  to  Kama- 
rowsky, but  he  scarcely  answered  me  and  I  felt 
myself  flushing  and  paling  with  humiliation. 

Silence  fell  upon  us  at  last.  Painful  and  em- 
barrassing as  I  felt  it  to  be,  I  yet  could  find 
no  word  to  say.  A  violent  headache  racked  my 
temples,  and  I  had  to  bite  my  lips  to  keep  myself 
from  bursting  into  tears. 

201 


202  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

Suddenly  I  got  up  and  went  into  my  room. 
With  trembling  hand  I  sought  in  my  dressing-case 
for  a  bottle  of  cocaine,  which  for  nearly  a  year  I 
had  not  touched.  I  lifted  it  to  my  lips  and  sipped 
the  exhilarating  poison.  Then  I  returned  to  the 
table. 

Kamarowsky  was  sitting  grim  and  silent  with 
bent  head  and  lowering  brow,  but  the  young 
stranger  raised  his  golden  eyes  under  their  long 
fair  lashes,  and  fixed  them  upon  me  as  if  to  give 
me  comfort.  After  a  few  moments,  in  order  to 
break  the  well-nigh  unbearable  silence,  he  spoke 
to  me  in  his  low  and  gentle  voice. 

"I  hear  that  Delphinus,  the  famous  crystal 
gazer,  has  arrived  in  Orel.  You  ought  to  get  him 
to  tell  you  your  fortune." 

*'Is  that  so!"  I  said,  smiling;  and  even  as  I 
spoke  the  prediction  of  that  strange  soothsayer 
flashed  into  my  memory.  I  seemed  to  hear  again 
the  brief,  prophetic  words :  Two  men  are  yet  to 
enter  into  your  life.  One  will  he  your  salvation 
— the  other  your  ruin." 

Two  men!  I  glanced  around  me,  startled  and 
amazed.  Two  men  were  here;  one  on  each  side 
of  me.  Was  the  prophecy  coming  true?  Were 
these  the  two  men  he  had  spoken  of?  Were  the 
One  and  the  Other  sitting  beside  me  now? 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  203 

In  my  mind  I  could  still  hear  the  fortune- 
teller's nasal,  dreamy  accent: 

**You  will  chose — the  Other.  It  is  your  des- 
tiny." 

Overcome  by  a  feeling  of  timorous  superstition, 
I  looked  at  my  two  table  companions,  of  whom 
One,  perhaps,  might  represent  my  destruction,  the 
Other  my  last  hope  of  happiness. 

At  my  right  hand  sat  Kamarowsky,  sullen  and 
sinister  in  his  grief  and  anger  against  me ;  on  my 
left  the  young  unknown,  with  radiant  face  and 
gold-bright  eyes  that  smiled  at  me.  A  flash  of  in- 
tuition seemed  to  illuminate  my  spirit;  here  was 
salvation!  Nicolas  Naumoff!  This  unknown 
youth,  in  whose  eyes  I  had  read  such  complete  and 
instant  devotion — it  was  he  whom  fate  had  sent 
to  lead  me  back  to  joy. 

Looking  back  to  that  hour  I  realize  that  it  was 
the  rhapsodical  delirium  of  cocaine  that  whipped 
my  brain  into  senseless  aberration ;  but  at  the  time 
I  implicitly  believed  that  by  a  miracle  of  divina- 
tion I  had  rent  the  veil  of  the  future,  and  could 
discern  with  inspired  gaze  the  distant  sweep  of 
the  years  to  come. 

I  saw  Kamarowsky — somber,  dark,  with  bent 
head — as  the  very  incarnation  of  sorrow  and  mis- 
fortune ;  and,  to  make  assurance  twice  sure,  was  it 


204  MAKIE  TARNOWSKA 

not  he  wliom  I  had  chosen?  And  had  not  the 
diviner  foretold  me  that  he  whom  I  chose  would 
be  the  one  to  lead  me  to  destruction! 

But  I  might  still  draw  back,  I  might  still  trick 
the  Fates  and  escape  from  my  predestined  doom. 
With  the  blind  impulse  of  the  hunted  quarry  seek- 
ing a  refuge,  I  turned  an  imploring  gaze  on  the 
young  unknown ;  he  read  despair  in  my  eyes,  and 
his  own  responded  with  a  flash  of  comprehension ; 
he  leaned  toward  me,  and,  as  if  in  the  throe  of 
some  instant  emotion,  I  saw  him  thrill  from  head 
to  foot  like  a  tense  string.  At  this  immediate  re- 
sponse of  his  nerves  to  mine,  I  also  felt  a  tremor 
stir  me,  as  the  water  of  a  lake  is  stirred  by  a  gust 
of  wind.  "What  evil  spirit  possessed  me?  Was 
I  ill?  Was  I  demented?  I  cannot  tell.  I  know 
that  my  soul  pledged  itself  to  him  at  that  moment ; 
and  I  know  that  he  understood  me. 

Thus,  in  my  attempt  to  escape  it,  the  tragic 
prophecy  was  to  be  fulfilled. 

When  Nicolas  Naumoff  got  up  to  take  his  leave 
I  knew  that  he  would  return,  that  I  should  see 
him  again,  and  this  thought  intoxicated  me  with 
such  delight  that  even  Kamarowsky,  in  spite  of  his 
anger  and  his  suspicions,  was  swept  away  by  the 
radiance  and  rapture  of  my  joyfulness.  I  was 
then — well  may  I  say  it  jxpw  | — at  the  zenith  of  my 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  205 

youthful  beauty,  notwithstanding,  or  perhaps  by 
reason  of  the  disease  that  burned  within  me  Hke  a 
consuming  lamp;  a  constant  fever  lit  my  trans- 
parent flesh  into  delicate  rose  flushes,  and  blazed 
like  lighted  sapphires  in  my  translucent  eyes. 

I  was  no  sooner  alone  with  him  than,  seeing  me 
thus  aflame  with  radiant  happiness,  Kamarowsky 
rose  and  came  towards  me  with  outstretched 
hands. 

''Marie,  I  love  you,  I  love  you!  I  will  trust 
you  utterly.  I  want  to  know  nothing  that  you 
do  not  wish  to  tell  me."  And  he  bowed  his  head 
over  my  hands  and  kissed  them. 

But  my  wild  thoughts  went  out  to  the  unknown 
youth  with  the  golden  eyes  who  had  left  us,  he 
through  whom  salvation  was  to  come  to  me;  and 
every  fiber  yearned  for  his  presence.  A  sudden 
wave  of  almost  physical  repulsion  for  Paul  Kama- 
rowsky overcame  me  and  I  started  away  from  his 
touch.  "Leave  me,"  I  cried,  "leave  me.  Let  me 
go  away."  And  I  tried  to  go  past  him  to  my 
room. 

But  he  stopped  me,  amazed  and  unbeliev- 
ing. "Why,  dearest,  why?  What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"It  is  over,"  I  murmured  incoherently,  "leave 
me,    I  do  not  wish  to  speak  to  you  any  more. 


206  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

I  do  not  wish  to  marry  you.  I  want  to  go  away 
and  never  see  you  again." 

* '  Mura !  you  are  dreaming,  you  are  out  of  your 
mind!  What  have  I  done  that  you  should  speak 
to  me  like  this  ? ' ' 

His  bewilderment  and  despair  only  irritated  me 
the  more.  ''You  will  drag  me  to  ruin  and  mis- 
fortune. I  was  told  so;  and  I  know,  I  feel  that 
it  is  true." 

"You  were  told  so?"  gasped  Paul.  ''What  are 
you  saying?  Mura,  come  to  your  senses.  Who 
has  put  such  preposterous  notions  into  your 
head?" 

Notwithstanding  my  dazed  and  drugged  state 
of  mind,  I  felt  that  to  tell  him  about  the  fortune- 
teller would  neither  convince  nor  impress  him; 
he  would  probably  laugh,  and  try  to  coax  or  scold 
me  back  to  my  senses.  So  I  wrapped  myself  in  an 
obstinate  and  mysterious  silence. 

The  unhappy  man  was  perplexed  and  dis- 
tressed. 

"Who  has  poisoned  your  mind  against  me, 
Mura?  Think,  think  a  moment;  who  in  all  the 
world  could  love  you  more  than  I  do  ?  Wlio  could 
protect  you  and  care  for  you  better  than  I  can, 
poor  helpless  creature  that  you  are  ? ' ' 

But  I  was  possessed  by  the  blind  obstinacy  of 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  207 

madness.  Quern  Deus  vult  perdere,  prius  de- 
mentat.  My  destiny  was  coming  upon  me  at  the 
very  time  I  thought  to  evade  it. 

^^Let  me  be!"  My  hands  twisted  themselves 
from  his  grasp.  "I  will  not  see  you  again!  I 
will  not!" 

"But  I  will,"  cried  Kamarowsky,  clasping  my 
wrist  in  an  iron  grip,  and  his  long,  languorous  eyes 
opened  wide  and  flamed  into  mine.  "Do  you 
think  that  because  I  am  kind  and  patient  you  can 
play  fast  and  loose  with  me?  No  indeed,  no  in- 
deed; you  have  promised  to  be  mine,  and  I  shall 
make  you  keep  your  word. ' ' 

Never  had  I  seen  him  like  this  nor  dreamed  that 
he  could  be  so  fierce  and  resolute.  I  felt  dizzy 
and  bewildered.  I  felt  the  bats  of  madness  flying 
in  my  brain.  I  raised  my  eyes  with  a  scornful 
smile  to  his:  how  could  he  keep  me  against  my 
will? 

As  if  he  had  divined  my  thought  he  bent  for- 
ward with  his  passionate  face  close  to  mine.  ' '  Do 
not  think  you  can  escape  me,"  he  said.  "Do  not 
imagine  it  for  a  moment.  Mura,  I  know  you  well. 
You  need  to  be  mastered,  and  I  shall  master  you. 
As  long  as  I  live,  remember — as  long  as  I  live  you 
shall  not  escape  me." 

These  words  seemed  to  pierce  my  dizzy  brain 


208  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

like  red-hot  needles.  *'As  long  as  he  lives  I  shall 
not  escape  him.    As  long  as  he  lives — !'' 

I  raised  my  eyes  and  looked  at  him;  then  I 
drooped  my  lashes — and  smiled. 

The  subtle  cunning  of  madness  stirred  within 
me. 


XXXI 

Paul  Kamarowsky  appeared  not  to  notice  it. 
He  continued  to  speak  agitatedly,  holding  my  un- 
willing hand  in  his. 

"I  know,  Mura,  that  you  have  done  many  un- 
worthy things  in  the  course  of  your  life;  I  know 
that  you  are  not  what  I  would  have  you  be;  but 
my  pity  for  your  misfortunes  is  far  greater  than 
my  resentment  at  your  faults.  I  know  that  you 
are  ill;  I  know  that  you  have  had  none  but  rakes 
and  reprobates  around  you;  it  shall  be  my  duty 
to  strengthen  you  and  uphold  you  with  my  love. 
I  will  help  you,  Mura,  whether  you  wish  it  or  not ; 
I  will  save  you  in  spite  of  yourself. ' ' 

Ah,  miserable  creature  that  I  was,  why  did  I 
not  throw  myself  upon  his  mercy  and  confide  my 
doubts  and  my  despair  to  his  generous  heart? 
Why  did  I  not  surrender  my  poor  sick  soul  to  his 
keeping?  This  was  indeed  the  last  time  that  salva- 
tion opened  its  haven  to  my  shipwrecked  soul ;  but 
I  knew  it  not,  and  like  a  boat  adrift  in  the  dark- 
ness I  swept  on  towards  the  storm. 

He  continued  to  speak.     ''HI  have  not  wanted 

209 


210  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

to  know  about  your  past,  it  has  not  been  from 
cowardice  nor  from  the  fear  of  any  man ;  but  from 
distrust  of  my  own  heart,  Mura,  for  fear  lest  my 
love  for  you  should  wane.  Whereas  it  is  my  duty 
and  my  mission  to  love  you,  Marie  Nicolaevna,  to 
love  and  save  you  from  your  own  weakness  and 
the  iniquity  of  the  world.  You  are  still  so  young 
— hardly  less  of  a  child  than  little  Tioka — notwith- 
standing the  storms  of  passion  and  sin  that  have 
passed  over  your  head.  All  you  need  is  to  live 
among  right-minded  people  who  will  love  you.  I 
shall  love  you,  Mura ;  and  my  mother,  gentle  soul 
that  she  is,  will  take  you  to  her  heart ;  and  so  will 
my  sisters.  Then  when  you  find  yourself  sur- 
rounded by  such  pure,  kind  and  simple  affections, 
you,  too,  will  become  simple,  kind  and  pure  again. ' ' 

His  voice  broke.  ''We  shall  be  so  happy;  and 
Tioka  and  Grania  will  be  happy;  and  so  will  your 
good  old  father.  He  shall  come  and  live  with  us. 
How  is  it  you  never  think  of  your  father,  Mura  ? 
The  generous,  broken-hearted  old  man  in  that  des- 
olate house  of  Otrada?" 

Hot  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes.  My  father! 
My  stately  father,  with  his  venerable  white  hair, 
and  his  proud  blue  eyes — the  ''terrible  O'Rourke," 
living  in  that  deserted  house,  widowed,  desolate 
and  alone.     There  was  no  one  to  coax  him  out  of 


MARIE  TARNOWSI^  211 

his  grief  or  his  anger;  no  arms  went  round  his 
neck,  no  laughing  voices  cried  to  him:  "Father, 
don't  be  the  terrible  O'Rourke!"  I  covered  my 
face  with  my  hands. 

Kamarowsky  bent  over  me.  "Is  it  not  wicked- 
ness, Mura,  to  throw  away  one's  life  as  you  do? 
To  rush  from  place  to  place,  from  emotion  to  emo- 
tion, from  misery  to  despair?  Is  it  not  more  than 
wickedness — is  it  not  madness?" 

"Madness!"  As  if  the  word  had  rent  a  veil 
before  my  eyes,  I  looked  my  calamity  full  in  the 
face.  Yes,  it  was  madness ;  it  was  the  hereditary 
curse  of  my  mother's  people.  I  was  like  my 
mother's  two  wild-faced,  frenzied  sisters,  whom 
we  used  to  run  away  from  and  laugh  at  when  we 
were  children,  Olga  and  I.  .  .  .  Madness !  In  my 
delicate  blue  veins  it  had  taken  root  again,  and 
now  its  monstrous  flower  opened  its  crashing 
petals  in  my  brain.  I  was  mad,  there  was  no  doubt 
of  it  and  no  help  for  it.     I  was  mad. 

I  spoke  the  words  softly  to  myself,  and  the  very 
sound  of  them  made  me  laugh.  It  amused  me  to 
think  that  no  one  knew  my  thoughts.  I  felt  like 
a  naughty  little  girl  hiding  in  a  dark  cupboard 
while  everybody  is  looking  for  her.  The  dark  cup- 
board was  my  mind,  and  I  had  discovered  madness 
there. 


212  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

Undoubtedly  I  was  bereft  of  reason;  and  my 
mother's  sisters,  now  for  so  many  years  entombed 
in  an  asylum  at  Warsaw,  were  assuredly  not  more 
mad  than  I.  The  thought  of  this,  also,  made  me 
laugh.  I  whispered  to  myself:  "I  am  cleverer 
than  they.  I  am  as  mad  as  they  are,  but  no  one 
shall  ever  know  it ! " 

I  have  no  other  explanation  to  give,  no  other 
justification.  I  was  demented,  and  I  knew  it. 
Sometimes  in  the  night  I  started  up  wide  awake, 
and  the  horror  of  the  thought  that  I  was  alone 
with  myself — ^with  myself  who  was  mad! — froze 
me  into  a  statue  of  ice.  As  soon  as  I  could  stir  a 
limb  I  would  creep  from  my  bed,  steal  out  into  the 
silent  corridors  of  the  hotel,  and  run  with  chatter- 
ing teeth  along  the  red-carpeted  passages  between 
the  long  double  rows  of  boots,  which  to  my  eyes 
appeared  like  little  monsters  crouching  at  the 
thresholds;  then  up  the  great  staircase,  turning 
round  every  moment  to  look  behind  me,  until  I 
reached  the  fourth  floor  and  the  room  of  Elise  and 
the  children. 

Softly  I  would  tap  at  the  door,  and  call: — 
''Elise!" 

"Yes,  madame."  Elise  Perrier  always  an- 
swered immediately,  as  if  she  never  slept. 

* '  Elise,  I  want  you. ' ' 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  213 

**Yes,  madame,  I  shall  come  at  once,"  and  I 
could  hear  her  rising  from  her  bed. 

Then  I  ran  back  through  the  silent  corridors, 
and  when  I  passed  Count  Kamarowsky's  door  I 
trembled  and  shuddered  and  felt  constrained  to 
stop.  I  looked  at  his  yellow  boots — square  and 
placid,  with  their  mouths  open  and  their  tongues 
hanging  out — and  I  experienced  a  wild  sensation 
of  fear  and  loathing  for  him  and  for  them. 

I  made  a  grimace  at  those  hateful  boots  and 
hurried  away  to  shut  myself  in  my  room  and  await 
Elise. 

She  would  come  in,  pale  and  tidy  in  her  red 
woolen  dressing-gown,  with  a  little  cap  on  her 
head.  She  sat  down  quietly  by  my  bedside  and 
held  my  hand.  Sometimes  she  read  aloud  to  me ; 
sometimes  she  repeated  Swiss  poems  and  ballads 
that  she  remembered  from  her  schooldays;  and 
I  soon  grew  calm  again  as  I  listened  to  her  quiet 
voice  and  felt  the  clasp  of  her  small  roughened 
hand  on  mine. 

Gradually  a  sort  of  frenzied  fear  of  Kamarow- 
sky  took  possession  of  me.  I  was  obsessed  con- 
tinuously with  the  idea  that  I  must  escape  from 
him  at  all  costs,  or  die.  My  every  fiber  shrank 
at  the  slightest  touch  of  his  hand.    I  longed  never 


214  MAEIE  TAKNOWSICA 

to  see  him  again.  I  longed  to  know  that  the  world 
held  him  no  more.  It  was  a  blind  instinctive 
frenzy  that  I  endured  without  reasoning  about  it. 
My  constant  and  only  preoccupation  was  to  fly 
from  him  who  spelt  ruin,  and  to  cling  to  Naumoff, 
my  deliverer. 

"Nicolas  Naumoff!  Nicolas  Naumoff!"  I  re- 
peated his  name  all  day  long  like  a  kind  of  exor- 
cism against  Kamarowsky;  sometimes  I  felt  as  if 
I  were  stifled,  as  if  I  must  hold  my  breath  until  he 
was  near. 

On  his  side,  Naumoff,  who  frequently  came  to 
see  us,  was  reserved  and  shy,  and  did  not  venture 
to  believe  in  what  nevertheless  he  could  not  but 
read  in  my  eyes.  Knowing  nothing  of  my  insen- 
sate notion  about  the  diviner's  prophecy,  and  hav- 
ing no  conception  that  to  my  fancy  he  was  a  res- 
cuer sent  to  me  by  Providence,  he  thought  I  was 
making  fun  of  him ;  or  at  other  times  he  believed 
my  predilection  for  him  was  merely  the  caprice  of 
a  frivolous  creature  accustomed  to  gratify  every 
passing  whim.  So  he  held  back,  aggrieved  and 
mistrustful. 

And  the  more  he  held  back  the  more  was  I  im- 
pelled to  pursue  him,  to  hold  and  to  vanquish  him. 
The  passionate  gravity  of  his  youthful  face  de- 
lighted me ;  I  was  thirsty  for  the  unknown  recesses 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  215 

of  his  soul  as  for  a  spring  filled  with  mysterious 
sweetness.  His  voice  perturbed  me;  his  silence 
lashed  my  nerves;  I  lived  in  a  perpetual  quiver 
of  rhapsodic  sensibility. 

I  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  when  Kamarowsky 
resolved  to  invite  all  his  friends  in  Orel  to  a  ban- 
quet in  order  to  announce  to  them  our  imminent 
marriage. 

At  this  banquet  Naumoff  also  was  present. 
Doubtless  he  already  knew  the  announcement 
that  his  friend  was  going  to  make,  yet  when  the 
Count  rose  to  speak  and  laid  his  hand  with  a 
placid  air  of  ownership  upon  mine,  I  saw  Nicolas 
Naumoff  turn  pale.  I  watched  with  deep  emotion 
the  color  slowly  receding  from  his  face ;  in  its  pal- 
lor his  youthful  countenance  appeared  to  me  still 
more  beautiful ;  he  looked  indeed  like  the  supreme 
deliverer — the  angel  of  death. 

I  did  not  comprehend  a  word  of  Paul  Kama- 
rowsky's  speech;  I  know  that  when  it  was  ended 
he  turned  to  me  and  placed  a  magnificent  diamond 
ring  upon  my  finger,  and  every  one  applauded  and 
cheered. 

Then  the  guests  rose  in  turn  to  congratulate 
Kamarowsky,  and  to  kiss  my  hand  and  wish  me 
joy;  and  I  know  that  I  smiled  and  thanked  them. 

Naumoff  alone  had  not  left  his  place,  but  in  the 


216  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

gay  chatter  and  stir  that  surrounded  us  no  one 
noticed  it.  He  soon  went  away;  he  disappeared 
without  taking  leave  of  any  one. 

Toasts  and  speeches  followed.  The  waiters 
came  and  went,  carrying  fruits  and  wines  and 
sometimes  leaving  the  large  double  doors  of  our 
dining-room  open  behind  them. 

Suddenly  as  I  raised  my  eyes  I  saw  a  man  stand- 
ing on  the  threshold  and  gazing  in  at  us. 

It  was  Prilukoff. 


XXXII 

In  truth  I  do  not  know  whether  I  felt  dismayed 
or  glad.     It  was  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream. 

Since  I  had  begun  to  take  cocaine  again,  that 
twilight  sensation  of  unreality  had  descended  anew 
like  a  misty  veil  upon  all  my  perceptions. 

I  could  not  distinguish  facts  from  illusions. 
Prilukoff  had  immediately  disappeared — or  had  I 
only  fancied  that  I  saw  him? 

Trembling  a  little,  I  rose  from  my  place,  and 
while  many  of  the  guests  were  still  talking  and 
laughing  with  their  host  I  excused  myself  on  the 
plea  of  fatigue.  They  toasted  me  a  last  time,  and 
Kamarowsky  kissed  me  ceremoniously  before  them 
all. 

With  cheeks  and  heart  aflame  I  hurried  to  my 
apartments,  glad  to  think  that  I  should  find  them 
dark  and  silent.  My  temples  were  throbbing,  the 
coronet  of  diamonds — a  gift  of  Kamarowsky 's — 
weighed  heavy  on  my  brow,  and  my  eyes  seemed 
to  be  pierced  with  red-hot  needles. 

I  opened  the  door  of  my  sitting-room,  where  a 
lamp,  turned  low,  glimmered  like  a  star  veiled  in 

217 


218  MAEIE  TAEXOWSKA 

red  vapor.  BeMnd  it  I  could  see  yawning  blackly 
the  open  door  leading  to  my  bedroom,  wliicli  was 
in  complete  darkness. 

I  had  a  strange  feeling  that  I  was  not  alone. 
Some  one  was  in  the  room — some  one  whom  I 
could  not  discern  was  near  to  me. 

Yes,  a  footstep  approached;  a  strong  arm  en- 
circled me.  Nicolas  Xaumoff's  voice  spoke  in 
thrilling  accents:  ''Marie!  Marie!  Mv  heart  is 
breaking. ' ' 

With  a  sigh  of  infinite  weariness  merging  into 
a  sense  of  infinite  repose  I  laid  my  head  against 
his  breast.  I  longed  to  die.  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
nothing  more  to  ask  for,  nothing  more  to  desire. 

But  the  anguish  that  was  passing  from  my  soul 
seemed  to  have  entered  into  his. 

' '  You  must  not  marry  that  man !  You  must  not, 
yon  shall  not!"  He  gripped  my  shoulders  as  if 
he  would  crash  them.  ' '  Tell  me,  tell  me  that  you 
do  not  love  him. ' ' 

At  that  instant  on  the  black  background  of  my 
bedroom  there  appeared  a  form — Prilukoff! 
Erect  in  the  doorway  he  stood  watching  us. 
Xaumoff  had  his  back  to  him,  but  across  his 
shoulder  I  looked  Prilukoff  in  the  face,  only  a  few 
steps  from  me. 

My  heart  stood  still.     "VMiat  would  he  do  ? 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  219 

Knowing  as  I  did  his  ungovernable  frenzies  of 
jealousy,  his  madness,  his  recklessness,  I  won- 
dered whether  he  would  leap  foi-^vard  and  spring 
at  Naumoff's  throat?  Would  there  be  blows  and 
groans  and  a  death-struggle  in  my  tranquil, 
shadowy  room?  Would  there  be  a  turmoil  and 
a  scandal,  during  which  the  bond  of  infamy 
that  tied  me  to  Prilukotf  would  be  revealed  to 
Naumoff?  Revealed  to  Kamarowsky  and  to  the 
world? 

The  fear  of  tragedy  and  disgrace  kept  me  stark 
and  terror-stricken,  rooted  to  the  spot.  Then  I 
saw  Prilukoff  move.  Slowly  he  raised  his  right 
arm.  His  right  hand  clutched  something  which  I 
could  not  see.  Suddenly — incredible  sight! — I 
saw  him  open  his  mouth  wide;  and  never,  never 
have  I  seen  anything  more  grotesque  and  terrify- 
ing than  that  figure  in  the  darkness  with  mouth 
gaping  wide.  .  .  . 

But  still  his  right  arm  moved,  rising  slowly  and 
relentlessly  until  it  was  on  a  level  with  that  terrible 
open  mouth.  What  did  the  hand  hold  ?  Did  I  not 
see  a  gleam  of  polished  metal? 

I  tried  to  scream,  but  no  sound  issued  from  my 
parched  throat.  I  could  see  the  whites  of  his  star- 
ing upturned  eyes,  and  the  hand  now  motionless 
just  in  front  of  the  open  mouth — 


220  IMAKIE  TARNOWSKA 

From  my  throat  came  a  hoarse  whisper:  ''Don't, 
for  heaven 's  sake !    Wait — ' ' 

Naumoff,  in  amazement  at  these  words  which 
he  believed  to  be  addressed  to  himself,  relaxed  his 
hold.  "What  is  it?"  he  whispered.  ''Is  any  one 
there?" 

Step  by  step  I  drew  back  from  him,  with  my 
fascinated  eyes  still  fixed  upon,  Prilukoff,  who 
stood  motionless  as  a  statue  in  the  same  dreadful 
attitude. 

"Is  any  one  there?"  repeated  Naumoff. 

"Yes.  Don't  move."  The  words  formed 
themselves  soundlessly  on  my  lips,  but  Naumoff 
understood  them  and  obeyed.  He  neither  turned 
nor  moved. 

"Stand  as  you  are,"  I  breathed;  "do  not  stir." 
And  I  glided  snake-like  from  him. 

Then  with  the  quickness  of  lightning  I  darted 
upon  Prilukoff,  thrusting  him  back  into  the  dark 
bedroom,  clutching  him  by  the  wrist,  and  covering 
his  rapid  breathing  with  my  hand.  The  carpet 
deadened  our  footsteps.  With  my  elbow  I  pushed 
the  door  and,  as  it  closed  behind  me,  I  turned 
and  shot  the  bolt.  I  was  locked  in  my  room  with 
Prilukoff. 

"Hush,  hush!"  I  whispered,  my  lips  almost 
touching  his   face.     "I  implore  you,  I  implore 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  221 

you!  Do  not  betray  me.  Do  not  let  them  hear 
you. ' ' 

Through  his  closed  and  stifled  lips  there  issued 
hideous,  incoherent  words  of  vituperation. 

' '  Hush !  hush !  hush ! "  I  pressed  my  hand  still 
tighter  to  his  lips.  "Forgive  me!  Spare  me!  I 
am  yours,  yours  only!  Donat,  forgive  me  and 
keep  silence!" 

''Mine,  mine  only,"  breathed  Prilukoff, 
hoarsely;  ''you  swear  it!" 

"Yes!  oh,  yes!" 

I  could  hear  Naumoff  trying  the  handle  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door. 

"Marie!  Marie!  What  are  you  doing?  Why 
have  you  run  away  f ' ' 

Prilukoff 's  right  hand  was  still  uplifted,  and  now 
he  held  it  close  to  his  temple.  As  I  clutched  that 
hand  I  could  also  feel  the  cold  contact  with  the 
steel  of  a  revolver. 

"Do  you  swear  that  you  will  be  mine  forever]" 

I  murmured  something  inarticulate.  Naumoff 
was  calling  under  his  breath:  "Marie!  Marie! 
Open  the  door." 

Prilukoff  raised  his  voice  slightly.  "Swear  to 
me  that  you  loathe  that  man  and  the  other ;  swear 
that  if  I  murdered  them  both  you  would  still  be 
mine. ' ' 


222  MARIE  TAENOWSKA 

''Yes,  yes.     Speak  softly!" 

' '  Swear  it !  Swear  that  they  shall  both  die,  that 
you  will  help  me  to  rid  the  world  of  them.  Swear 
it."  I  could  feel  his  hand  tenser  against  his 
temple,  I  could  feel  the  first  finger  crooking  itself 
over  the  trigger.  "Unless  you  swear,"  hissed 
Prilukoff,  "I  shall  shoot  myself  here,  this 
instant. ' ' 

I  did  so.  He  repeated  the  words  softly  with 
me:  "I  swear — that — they  shall  die."  And 
something  within  me  kept  saying:  "I  am  dream- 
ing all  this. ' ' 

''That  is  not  enough!"  breathed  Prilukoff. 
■'Swear  it  on  the  life  of  Tioka." 

My  parched  lips  opened,  but  the  iniquitous  words 
would  not  pass  my  throat. 

Then  Prilukoff  pushed  me  from  him  and  the 
fingers  of  his  right  hand  moved.  I  heard  a  slight 
clicking  sound.    I  threw  myself  forward. 

"I  swear  it — " 

And  I  swore  it  on  the  life  of  Tioka. 

Prilukoff 's  hand  dropped  to  his  side;  he  seemed 
to  reel  slightly,  and  staggering  backwards  leaned 
against  the  foot  of  my  bed. 

Naumoff  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  was  grow- 
ing impatient.     He  shook  the  handle. 

I  bent  over  to  Prilukoff.    "Are  you  going  to 


MARIE  TARNOWSI^  223 

betray  me?  If  I  open  this  door,  will  you  show 
yourself?" 

He  laughed  derisively.  ''Go  along,  go  along," 
he  muttered.    And  I  opened  the  door. 

''Why  did  you  run  away?"  asked  Naumoff,  tak- 
ing my  hand. 

I  closed  the  door  behind  me.  I  felt  no  more  fear 
of  Prilukoff.  I  felt  no  more  fear  of  any  one  or 
anything.  My  heart  seemed  turned  to  stone. 
And  as  I  stood  thus,  some  one  else  knocked  at  the 
outside  door.     It  was  Kamarowsky. 

And  the  door  was  not  locked !  I  turned  quickly 
and  blew  out  the  lamp. 

But  Naumoff  had  taken  a  rapid  step  forward, 
and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  Then  he  stood 
still,  leaning  against  the  door. 

Kamarow^sky  outside  heard  him;  and  thinking 
it  was  I,  murmured  softly:  "Good-night!  Good- 
night, my  darling ! " 

Then  I  was  seized  with  a  convulsive  fit  of 
laughter.  I  laughed  and  laughed,  shaken  from 
head  to  foot  by  a  wild  paroxysm  of  mirth.  I  could 
not  leave  off  laughing.  I  laughed  until  the  laugh- 
ter became  a  spasm  which  racked  and  agonized  me ; 
my  teeth  chattered,  I  trembled  and  quaked;  and 
still  the  hysterical  laughter  continued,  shaking  my 
entire  frame  as  an  aspen  is  shaken  by  a  brutal 


224  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

hand.  I  laughed  and  laughed,  trying  to  laugh 
softly  in  order  that  those  three  men  standing  in 
the  dark  should  not  hear  me. 

The  thought  of  the  three  men  motionless  be- 
hind the  doors  made  me  laugh  more  than  ever. 
Tears  ran  down  my  face,  my  head  felt  as  if  it 
would  burst  asunder.  And  still  I  rocked  in  the 
throes  of  frantic  laughter  until  body  and  soul 
seemed  to  be  shattered  and  rent.  .  .  . 

I  staggered  and  sank  to  the  floor. 

Naumoff  bent  over  me.  I  felt  his  icy  hands 
passing  over  my  face.  Then  we  remained  quite 
silent  in  the  dark. 

Slowly,  reluctantly  Kamarowsky's  footsteps  had 
passed  away  down  the  corridor.  .  .  . 

I  mustered  strength  enough  to  whisper  to  Nau- 
moff :    ' '  Go — send  Elise  to  me — quickly ! ' ' 

Naumoff  obeyed. 

Yes,  Nicolas  Naumoff — submissive  soul! — ^has 
always  obeyed. 


xxxin 

I  WAS  ill  in  bed  for  a  long  time.  I  lay  supine 
and  motionless,  feeling — as  once,  long  before — as 
if  I  were  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a  well.  In  the 
distance,  far  above  me,  life  and  the  world  went 
whirling  on;  but  nothing  in  me  or  of  me  stirred, 
except  that  at  every  pulse-beat  my  life-blood 
seemed  to  be  gently,  inexorably  ebbing  away.  The 
doctors  bent  over  me  with  anxious  faces;  on  my 
body  I  felt  the  burning  weight  of  ice ;  my  arteries 
contracted  under  the  grip  of  ergot  and  chloride  of 
iron.  Still  slowly  and  inexorably  I  glided,  as  on 
a  smooth  and  shallow  river,  towards  death. 

Tioka  and  Grania  had  been  sent  to  stay  with 
friends  in  Kharkov. 

Naumoif  came  every  day  to  ask  for  news,  and 
sent  me  flow^ers;  but  he  was  never  allowed  to  see 
me.  Kamarowsky  had  permission  to  come  into 
my  room  for  ten  minutes  every  morning,  but  he 
was  not  allowed  to  speak  to  me. 

Prilukoff,  locked  in  my  rooms,  watched  over  me 
night  and  day. 

Nobody  knew  of  his  existence,  for  no  one  was 
allowed  to  enter  my  apartment.    How  and  when 

225 


226  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

lie  slept  and  took  his  meals  I  do  not  know.  Per- 
haps Elise  looked  after  that.  He  undoubtedly 
grew  thinner,  more  haggard  and  spectral  every- 
day with  sleeplessness,  fasting  and  anxiety. 

Night  and  day  he  sat  at  my  bedside  watching 
me.  Sometimes,  as  I  lay  prostrate  with  closed 
eyes,  I  said  to  myself  that  I  must  open  them  and 
look  at  him ;  but  so  great  seemed  the  effort  of  rais- 
ing my  heavy  eyelids,  that  frequently  hours  passed 
and  I  could  not  do  so.  When  at  last  I  lifted  my 
leaden  lashes,  I  saw  him,  always  sitting  motionless 
beside  me  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  my  face.  With 
renewed  effort  I  faintly  contracted  the  muscles  of 
my  face  and  attempted  to  smile  at  him.  Then, 
worn  out  with  fatigue,  I  dropped  my  heavy  lids  and 
my  soul  floated  away  again  towards  unconscious- 
ness. .  .  . 

When  I  began  to  get  better  I  noticed  to  my 
amazement  that  Prilukoff  talked  to  himself  all  the 
time.  Perhaps  he  had  done  so  from  the  first,  but 
then  I  was  too  weak  to  understand  or  even  to  hear 
him.  Now  that  a  little  strength  was  coming  back 
to  me  each  day,  I  could  hear  and  comprehend  the 
words  he  uttered ;  it  was  a  succession  of  impreca- 
tions, of  incoherent  and  disconnected  maledictions 
hurled  against  Naumoff  and  Kamarowsky,  who  as 
he  thought  had  snatched  my  heart  from  him,  and 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  227 

would  be  the  ruin  and  the  death  of  me.  I  could 
hear  him  murmuring : 

"They  must  be  got  rid  of;  we  have  sworn  it. 
They  must  die." 

Towards  evening  his  meager  face  grew  red  as  if 
with  fever,  and  his  mutterings  increased,  became 
more  rapid  and  excited.  He  would  bend  over  me 
with  his  nightmare  face  as  I  lay  weak  and  helpless 
on  my  pillows. 

''They  are  outside  there,  in  the  corridor,  both 
of  them.  I  can  hear  them  walking  up  and  down, 
whispering  together — talking  about  you.  But  they 
are  doomed,  are  they  not?  Irrevocably  doomed. 
You  have  sworn  it.     Tell  me  that  it  is  so. ' ' 

I  faltered  "Yes,"  hoping  to  silence  him,  but  he 
never  ceased  his  uncanny  mutterings ;  and  the  idea 
of  murder  completely  possessed  his  disordered 
brain.  Elise,  moving  like  a  little  frightened  ghost 
through  the  locked  and  darkened  rooms,  fre- 
quently attempted  to  come  to  my  aid. 

"Go  away;  leave  her  alone,"  she  would  say  to 
Prilukoff.  "Do  you  want  her  to  fall  ill  again? 
Why  don't  you  go  to  sleep?  Why  don't  you  eat? 
Why  don't  you  go  out?" 

But  Prilukoff  stared  at  her  with  vacant  eyes, 
then  went  into  the  dining-room  and  drank  some 
vodka,  and  soon  he  was  bending  over  me  again. 


228  MARIE  TAENOWSI^^ 

''Mind,  I  am  not  going  to  do  it  alone,"  he  whis- 
pered, ''so  that  afterwards  you  would  be  afraid 
and  horrified  of  me.  No,  no.  You  shall  help  me. 
You  shall  attend  to  one,  and  I  to  the  other." 

By  degrees,  as  strength  returned  to  me  and  dis- 
pelled the  torpor  that  had  numbed  my  brain,  I 
understood  Prilukoff 's  ravings,  and  was  aghast  at 
them.  Absorbed  in  his  monstrous  dream,  he  de- 
lighted in  planning  all  the  details  of  the  double 
crime. 

"What  I  want  is  to  be  alone  with  the  man  I  saw 
holding  you  in  his  arms  the  other  evening. ' '  He 
ground  his  teeth.  "As  for  your  betrothed,  you 
shall  give  him  a  dose  of  curare  or  atropine.  An 
exquisite  wedding  cup  for  the  bridegroom ! ' ' 

Then  I  burst  into  tears  of  terror  and  weakness, 
while  the  indignant  Elise,  hastening  to  my  aid, 
would  grasp  Prilukoff's  arm  and  compel  him  to 
leave  me.  He  would  sit  gloomily  in  a  corner,  or 
go  into  the  adjoining  room,  but  a  little  while 
afterwards  he  was  there  again,  raving  as  before. 

"Elise,"  I  whispered  to  her  one  evening,  "I  am 
afraid,  I  am  terribly  afraid  of  him. ' ' 

"Shall  I  tell  some  one  about  it?  Shall  I  tell 
Monsieur  the  Count  ? ' '  exclaimed  Elise. 

"No,  no,"  I  cried. 

"Might  I — ^might  I  tell  Monsieur  Naumoff  ?" 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  229 

I  hesitated;  but  when  I  recalled  those  golden 
eyes  that  turned  to  me  filled  with  such  trust  and 
adoration  I  shook  my  head.  ''No,  tell  no  one, 
Elise,  tell  no  one."  And  I  hid  my  face  in  the 
pillows. 

At  last  a  day  came  when  I  was  able  to  be  up  for 
an  hour,  and  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  prevent 
Kamarowsky  from  coming  to  see  me.  Prilukoff 
refused  to  go  away;  I  could  not  get  him  to  stir 
from  my  room.  At  last,  having  compelled  me 
to  repeat  the  abominable  vow,  having  forced  me 
to  invoke  once  more  the  seraphic  image  of  little 
Tioka  as  tutelar  genius  of  a  monstrous  crime,  he 
went  away,  passing  through  my  dressing-room  to 
an  outer  passage  at  the  back  of  the  hotel. 

Elise  dressed  me  and  placed  me  in  an  armchair 
near  the  window,  where  I  reclined,  trembling  and 
weak.  Then  I  sent  word  to  Count  Kamarowsky 
that  I  would  see  him. 

He  came  in  full  of  emotion  and  joy.  ''At  last, 
at  last  you  are  better,"  he  cried,  his  kind  eyes 
alight  with  pleasure.  ' '  But  how  pale  you  are,  how 
dreadfully  pale. ' '  And  bending  over  me,  he  kissed 
my  hair  with  infinite  tenderness. 

As  I  saw  him  standing  before  me,  smiling  and 
well,  the  murderous  ravings  of  Prilukoff  and  my 
ow^n   iniquitous    vow   seemed   but   a   figment    of 


230  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

my  morbid  fancy,  a  half -forgotten  illusion  of  my 
delirium,  dissolving  and  fading  away  like  a  dark 
dream  at  daylight. 

Kamarowsky  held  my  hand  tightly  clasped  in 
his,  as  if  he  were  half  afraid  I  might  vanish  from 
him.  '^What  a  poor  little  blue-white  hand!"  he 
said.  ''You  have  become  quite  transparent, 
Mura;  I  think  I  can  look  right  through  you  and 
see  your  soul,  trembling  and  flickering  like  a  little 
flame ! ' ' 

I  smiled  at  him.  All  my  morbid  fear  and  dis- 
like of  him,  even  as  all  my  sudden  insensate 
infatuation  for  Naumoff,  was  spent.  Nothing 
remained  of  the  storm  my  soul  and  senses  had 
passed  through  but  a  limitless  weakness  and 
languor.  I  yearned  to  rest,  to  sleep,  to  sink  out 
of  life  and  be  no  more.  .  .  . 

A  few  moments  later  they  announced  Naumoff, 
who  had  brought  me  some  roses.  I  was  neither 
glad  nor  sorry  to  see  him.  Punctually  when  an 
hour  had  elapsed  Elise  Perrier  sent  my  visitors 
away  and  put  me  to  bed  again. 

I  fell  asleep  almost  immediately. 

When  I  reopened  my  eyes,  twilight  filled  my 
room  with  shadows  and  there  was  Prilukoff, 
sitting  beside  my  bed,  talking  to  himself  about 
murder,  revenge  and  poison. 


XXXIV 

Every  day  my  fear  of  Prilukoff  increased.  I 
had  only  one  thought — to  escape  from  him,  to  go 
far  away  where  he  could  never  find  me ;  better  still, 
to  hide  with  Tioka  and  Elise  in  some  distant  spot, 
where  neither  this  terrible  maniac  nor  yet  Nau- 
moff,  nor  even  Kamarowsky,  could  ever  reach  me. 

I  thought  of  Otrada,  my  home.  But  how  could 
my  unhappy  father  protect  me  against  the  loving 
persistence  of  Kamarowsky,  against  Naumoff's 
passionate  daring,  or  Prilukoff 's  diabolic  de- 
signs 1 

In  the  rare  moments  when  I  was  alone  with 
Elise,  we  talked  it  over.  In  trembling  whispers, 
glancing  constantly  round  lest  the  Scorpion  should 
be  on  the  watch,  we  concerted  the  manner  of  our 
flight. 

We  made  a  thousand  different  plans,  all  equally 
extravagant  and  impracticable.  In  our  luxurious 
hotel  rooms  we  were  imprisoned  like  mice  in  a 
trap.  We  never  opened  a  door  without  finding 
a  maid  awaiting  our  orders,  or  a  zealous  and  ob- 
sequious waiter  bowing  to  us,  or  Kamarowsky 

231 


232  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

asking  for  news,  or  Naumoff  waiting  with  a 
bunch  of  flowers  in  his  hand. 

We  closed  the  door,  and  found  ourselves  shut 
up  with  Prilukoff,  ferocious  and  maniacal,  who 
glowered  at  us  with  the  eye  of  a  tiger. 

A  thousand  times  in  my  weakness  and  despair 
I  was  on  the  point  of  throwing  the  door  wide  open 
and  calling  for  help — calling  Kamarowsky  and 
Naumoff,  and  crying  to  them:  "Look!  a  man  is 
shut  up  in  here.  For  days  and  days  he  has  been 
torturing  and  threatening  me.  The  man  is  a  crim- 
inal and  a  thief,  and  he  has  been  my  lover.  Save 
me  from  him ! ' ' 

But  then  I  pictured  to  myself  the  scene  of  vio- 
lence that  would  follow,  the  room  echoing  with  re- 
volver shots ;  and  at  the  mere  thought  of  it,  in  my 
weak  and  exhausted  state,  I  fell  into  long  fainting 
fits  from  which  Elise  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in 
reviving  me. 

One  morning  Elise  had  an  idea:  ''Let  us  con- 
fide in  the  doctor. ' ' 

I  agreed.  But  the  thought  agitated  me  so 
that  when  the  doctor  came  he  found  me  trembling, 
with  a  rapid,  irregular  pulse  and  panting 
breath. 

''Doctor — "  I  began. 

"Ah,  but  this  is  bad,  very  bad.    What  is  the 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  233 

meaning  of  all  this  agitation?  Did  you  sit  up  too 
long?  If  you  are  not  a  better  patient,  I  shall  have 
to  complain  of  you  to  my  friend  Paul. ' ' 

His  friend  Paul!  True.  He  was  a  friend,  an 
intimate  friend,  of  Kamarowsky's.  How  could 
I  ever  have  had  the  idea  that  he  would  keep  our 
secret,  that  he  would  not  betray  my  intended 
flight?  It  was  a  crazy  notion  of  Elise's.  I  cast 
a  significant  glance  at  her,  and  was  silent. 

He  prescribed  bromides  and  recommended  abso- 
lute rest  of  body  and  mind.  Scarcely  was  he  gone 
when  to  my  astonishment  the  long  curtain  that 
hung  in  front  of  an  alcove  where  Elise  kept  my 
dresses  moved  slightly.  Then  they  parted,  and 
Prilukoff  appeared. 

Ah!  he  had  not  gone  out  as  he  had  pretended 
when  the  doctor  had  been  announced!  He  had 
hidden  himself.    Wliat  if  I  had  spoken? 

My  fear  of  him  turned  to  frenzy :  I  thought  him 
endowed  with  supernatural  powers.  My  room 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  innumerable  Prilukoffs 
peering  out  at  me  from  every  corner.  I  clung  to 
Elise.  "We  must  go  away,  we  must  go  away 
to-morrow,"  I  whispered.  "Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Yes,  madame,"  was  Elise's  firm  and  humble 
reply. 


234  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 


''Send  to  fetch  little  Tioka;  send  for  him  at 
once." 

''Yes,  madame." 

Later,  while  she  was  dressing  me,  she  stooped 
to  draw  on  my  stocking — Prilukoff  was  reading  in 
the  adjoining  room — and  she  murmured: 

' '  We  have  no  money  to  travel  with. ' ' 

"You  must  ask  Count  Kamarowsky  for  some; 
he  will  give  you  all  we  want, ' '  I  whispered. 

"Not  without  asking  what  it  is  for.  We  shall 
need  a  great  deal." 

"Oh,  Ehse,  think,  think  of  something,"  I  sighed, 
and  felt  myself  turning  faint. 

"What  are  you  two  mumbling  and  plotting?" 
growled  Prilukoff's  voice  from  the  adjoining 
room. 

We  were  silent. 

Tenderly  and  anxiously  assisted  by  Kama- 
rowsky and  Elise  I  went  down  to  the  terrace  that 
day,  and  spent  the  afternoon  reclining  on  a  couch 
in  the  mild  spring  sunshine,  with  eyes  closed  and 
every  limb  relaxed.  I  thought  of  our  impending 
flight.  Kamarowsky,  seated  beside  me,  kept  si- 
lence, thinking  I  was  asleep. 

Shortly  afterwards  I  heard  Tioka 's  quick  little 
footsteps  running  across  the  terrace  towards  us. 
Kamarowsky  doubtless  warned  him  to  keep  very 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  235 

quiet,  for  I  heard  him  stepping  nearer  on  tip-toe, 
and  without  a  word  he  clambered  on  to  Kama- 
rowsky's  knee  and  laid  his  fair  head  confidingly 
against  his  shoulder. 

Beneath  my  drooping  lashes,  I  gazed  at  them, 
and  thought  of  the  hideous  plot  that  was  weaving 
itself  round  this  kind  and  generous  man,  who  all 
unknowing  pressed  forward  towards  treachery 
and  death;  and  I  thought  of  the  iniquitous  oath 
which  had  placed  a  circlet  of  blood  round  that  fair 
childish  head. 

With  a  sob  I  raised  myself  and  stretched  out  my 
arms  to  them  both. 

•  ••••••• 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  on  the  following  night. 
Elise  put  out  the  lights  and  prepared  the  bro- 
mide and  water  on  my  little  table.  Prilukoff 
was  rambling  backwards  and  forwards  between 
bedroom  and  drawing-room,  smoking  a  ciga- 
rette. 

*' Elise,"  I  whispered.     *'Are  we  ready?" 

Elise  nodded. 

' '  Elise,  when  ?     When  is  it  to  be  1 " 

**Hush,  madame.  Later  on,  towards  morning; 
as  soon" — with  her  head  she  indicated  Prilukoff 
— ''as  soon  as  he  is  asleep." 

''But  he  never  sleeps,  Elise!" 


236  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

Elise  looked  at  me.  "He  will  sleep  to-niglit," 
she  said;  and  there  was  an  icy  hardness  in  her 
tone  that  I  had  never  heard  before. 

"Why  will  he  sleep?     How  can  you  know?" 

Before  she  could  answer,  Prilukoff  reappeared 
in  the  doorway.  He  had  a  glass  of  vodka  in  his 
hand. 

"This  accursed  throat!"  he  said,  throwing  his 
cigarette  away  and  putting  his  hand  to  his  neck. 
"Everything  I  swallow  burns  and  scratches  me." 
He  coughed  and  cleared  his  throat.  "You  can  go, 
Elise.  I  shall  see  to  anything  your  mistress 
needs." 

Elise  did  not  reply.  With  a  hard,  pinched  face 
she  poured  the  water  into  my  glass  and  dropped 
two  little  bromide  tablets  into  it.  Then  with  her 
back  turned  to  Prilukoff  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon 
me  and  moved  her  lips:  "Do  not  drink."  She 
formulated  the  words  clearly  but  without  sound. 
I  stared  at  her  in  bewilderment,  and  she  made  the 
movement  with  her  lips  again:  "Do  not  drink 
anything/'  Then  seeing  that,  notwithstanding 
my  astonishment,  I  had  understood  her,  she  said 
respectfully:  "Good  night,  madame,"  and  left 
the  room. 

She  went  out  by  the  bath-room  door,  of  which 
she  always  kept  the  key. 


MAEIE  TAENOWSKA  237 

Prilukoff  dropped  into  an  armcliair  and  yawned. 
''This  accursed  throat,"  he  repeated. 

He  poured  out  a  glass  of  water  from  the  crystal 
carafe  on  my  table  and  swallowed  it  at  a  gulp. 
Then  he  coughed  violently. 

''The  devil!"  he  exclaimed.  ''This  too!  It 
tastes  like  some  beastly  concoction  of — of  chloral. ' ' 
He  coughed  and  yawned  again.  Then  he  leaned 
his  head  against  my  bed.  A  few  moments  later 
he  started  up. 

"The  devil!"  he  repeated,  rising  to  his  feet.  I 
saw  him  go  to  the  little  table  on  which  Elise  every 
evening  left  some  coffee  ready  on  a  spirit  lamp; 
he  lit  it,  and  I  dreamily  watched  the  thin  blue 
waverings  of  the  flame.  While  the  coffee  was 
heating  Prilukoff  constantly  cleared  his  throat, 
with  the  same  murmured  oath.  Now  he  poured 
the  smoking  coffee  into  a  cup  and  sipped  it.  ' '  By 
all  the  infernal  powers — "  he  cried,  and  turned 
suddenly  to  look  at  me. 

I  did  not  dare  to  shut  my  eyes,  much  as  I  should 
have  liked  to  do  so.  He  came  up  to  my  bed  and 
bending  over  me  looked  me  in  the  face.  Then  he 
touched  my  shoulder. 

"See  here!" 

I  drooped  my  eyelids  drowsily.  "Yes,  dear! 
What  is  it?" 


238  MARIE  TARNOWSKLi 

''Just  taste  this  coffee,"  and  lie  pushed  the  cup 
against  my  lips. 

I  sat  up  and  with  a  smile  took  the  cup  from  his 
hands. 

''It  bums,"  I  said,  barely  touching  it  with  my 
lips  and  making  a  little  grimace. 

"Drink  it!"  he  roared  in  a  terrible  voice, 
though  his  eyes  were  half  shut  as  if  he  could  not 
keep  awake. 

I  took  a  sip  of  the  coffee :  it  scraped  my  throat 
like  a  rake.  I  thought  of  Elise  and  understood. 
For  a  moment  the  idea  flashed  through  my  brain 
to  say  that  I  found  nothing  the  matter  with  it. 
Then  I  changed  my  mind. 

"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed.  "What  have 
they  put  in  this  coffee?    It  tastes  like  poison!" 

Prilukoff  bent  still  closer  over  me. 

"If  you  had  said  it  was  all  right,  I  should  have 
strangled  you." 

My  teeth  chattered,  partly  through  the  taste  of 
the  chloral,  partly  through  my  fear  of  Prilukoff. 

"Have  you  drunk  much  of  it?"  I  gasped. 
"You  ought  to  call  for  help." 

But  Prilukoff  had  sunk  into  an  armchair,  and 
already,  with  his  head  rolled  back  and  his  mouth 
open,  he  slept. 


XXXV 

How  did  we  three  hapless,  terrified  creatures 
manage  to  escape  from  the  hotel  that  night? 

Tioka,  wakened  out  of  his  sleep  at  three  o  'clock, 
kept  on  whimpering. 

''Where  are  we  going?  I  am  afraid.  I  want 
Papa  Paul !     Call  Papa  Paul. ' ' 

As  we  descended  the  dark  staircase  a  night 
porter,  dozing  in  the  hall,  started  up  and  came  to- 
wards us,  blinking  and  yawning.  Wlien  he  caught 
sight  of  Elise,  laden  with  shawls  and  medicine 
bottles — which  constituted  all  our  luggage — ^he 
seemed  greatly  astonished. 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke.  Then:  *'I  am 
feeling  ill,"  I  said.  "We  are  going  to  the  doctor. 
Please  call  a  carriage  for  me." 

''But  excuse  me,  madame,"  stammered  the  man. 
*'Had  I  not  better  telephone  to  the  doctor  to  come 
to  the  hotel?"  His  eyes  wandered  suspiciously 
from  me  to  the  lachrymose  Tioka,  and  from  Tioka 
to  Elise  and  her  burdens. 

"Open  the  door,"  said  Elise  authoritatively, 
"and  call  a  carriage,  at  once." 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

239 


240  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

Then  I  saw  Elise  gather  all  the  shawls  into  a 
heap  on  her  left  arm,  as  with  her  right  hand  she 
searched  for  something  under  her  cloak.  She 
drew  out  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper,  and  with  a 
gesture  of  solemn  dehberation  she  proffered  it  to 
the  man.    It  was  a  banknote  of  a  hundred  rubles. 

The  man  took  the  note,  stared  at  it,  and  turned 
it  round  and  round  in  his  fingers.  Then  he  raised 
his  eyes  and  gazed  in  stupefaction  at  Elise. 

''Open  that  door  and  call  a  carriage,"  com- 
manded Elise,  in  a  thin  voice. 

The  man  obeyed.  As  the  large  door  swung  back 
we  could  see  that  it  was  nearly  dawn;  the  sound 
of  distant  church  bells  came  to  us  across  the  clear, 
keen  air.  Elise  raised  her  hand  to  her  forehead 
and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  .  .  .  She  had 
plundered  the  white  elephant ! 

Oh,  Elise  Perrier,  not  least  among  my  great 
pangs  of  remorse  is  the  thought  that  I  have 
dragged  you  down  into  my  own  dishonor.  For 
me  and  through  me,  your  honest  hard-working 
hand  and  your  innocent  soul  were  stained  with 
guilt. 

While  we  stood  waiting  for  the  man  to  return, 
I  thought  I  heard  a  door  open  and  close  overhead. 

I  started.  ''Could  it  be  Prilukoffr'  I  gasped 
to  Elise. 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  241 

She  shook  her  head. 

*'Elise,  what  have  you  done  to  himr' 

*'I  put  chloral  into  everything — into  every- 
thing," and  Elise  shuddered. 

* '  Oh,  Elise !    What  if  he  were  to  die  r  ^ 

She  made  no  answer. 

''And  if  we  were  to  be  sent  to  prison?" 

The  bells  were  ringing  joyfully  in  the  limpid 
Easter  dawn. 

Elise  closed  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  moved: 
''Dear  God  of  Eastertide,  give  us  Thy  blessing." 

Tioka  stopped  crying  to  look  at  her.  Then  with 
an  enchanting  smile  he  did  as  she  had  done.  He 
closed  his  blue  eyes,  which  were  still  full  of  tears, 
and  said:  "Dear  God  of  Eastertide,  give  us  Thy 
blessing. ' ' 

The  days  swung  forward. 

Prilukoff  was  the  first  to  discover  us.  "We  had 
been  hidden  in  Vienna,  in  the  little  Hotel  Victoria, 
less  than  a  week,  when  one  morning  he  stood  be- 
fore our  terror-stricken  eyes. 

He  was  derisive  and  sarcastic;  but  finding  us 
alone — ^without  Kamarowsky,  without  Naumoff — 
the  maleficent  frenzy  that  possessed  him  at  Orel 
seemed  to  have  vanished.  He  was  soon  quite 
genial  and  good-humored;  he  was  once  more  the 


242  MAEIE  TAKNOWSKA 

Prilukoff  we  had  known  at  Moscow,  the  trusty 
knight — Elise's  Lohengrin! 

He  did  not  speak  of  the  past;  he  made  no  allu- 
sion to  the  chloral.  Neither  did  he  ever  recall  his 
murderous  purposes;  and  sometimes  I  thought 
that  I  had  dreamt  it  all.  Cheerful  and  light- 
hearted,  he  took  us  out  for  drives  in  carriages  and 
motors,  to  the  Prater,  to  the  Bruhl,  to  the  Sem- 
mering;  he  insisted  upon  our  going  with  him  to 
theaters,  concerts  and  cabarets. 

And  to  pay  for  it  all  we  had  recourse  to  the 
black  leather  satchel.  Wlien  any  money  was  re- 
quired, we  found  it  there.  No  accounts  were  kept. 
Simply,  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  we  dipped  into 
the  lacerated  body  of  the  white  elephant  and  took 
what  we  needed. 

I  let  myself  drift  with  the  tide;  I  gave  no 
thought  either  to  the  future  or  the  past,  but 
yielded  myself  passively  to  my  fate  like  a  straw 
afloat  on  the  water.  .  .  . 

One  day  I  saw  in  the  newspapers  that  Kama- 
rowsky  was  putting  in  motion  the  police  of  every 
city  in  Europe  in  his  efforts  to  find  me.  Then, 
on  Prilukoff's  advice,  I  sent  Elise  to  Neuchatel  to 
telegraph  to  him  from  there  in  my  name,  in  order 
to  tranquilize  him  and  mislead  his  inquiries. 

No  sooner  was  the  name  of  Kamarowsky  men- 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  243 

tioned  between  us  than  Prilukoff  became  sullen 
and  gloomy  again.  He  sulked  and  glowered  at 
me,  and  passed  the  wliole  day  without  speaking  a 
word. 

On  this  particular  day  we  had  taken  a  box  at 
the  Theater  An  der  Wien,  having  promised  Tioka 
that  he  should  hear  *'The  Merry  Widow."  Long 
before  it  was  time  to  go,  the  little  fellow  was 
dressed  and  ready,  jumping  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  window. 

''Let  us  make  haste,"  he  cried.  ''The  carriage 
will  be  tired  of  waiting.    Let  us  make  haste ! ' ' 

Suddenly  he  uttered  a  shriek  of  joy.  "Mother, 
mother,  look!  There  is  Papa  Paul!  I  can  see 
him — he  has  just  passed.  Papa  Paul!"  he 
shouted  with  all  his  might. 

Prilukoff  caught  him  by  his  little  jacket  and 
drew  him  roughly  from  the  window.  Then  he 
himself  looked  out. 

"Sure  enough,"  he  said,  shutting  the  window 
and  looking  at  me  with  that  terrible  crooked  smile 
I  had  learned  to  dread.     "It  is  Kamarowsky." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  he  said: 
"And  now  I  have  had  enough  of  this.  We  will 
end  it."    Murder  gleamed  in  his  eyes. 

I  clasped  Tioka  in  my  arms — the  child  was  quite 
sad  and  hurt  by  Prilukoff 's  sudden  rudeness — and 


244  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

as  I  kissed  Ms  soft  curls  I  breathed  Elise's  prayer: 
^'Dear  God  of  Eastertide,  give  us  Thy  bless- 
ing. ' ' 

But  alas !  it  was  Easter  no  longer. 

In  spite  of  what  had  happened,  we  went  to  the 
theater  that  night.  And  there,  while  the  music 
swayed  us  in  the  undulating  rhythm  of  the  waltz, 
and  little  Tioka  gazed  enraptured  at  the  stage, 
Prilukoff,  sitting  behind  me  in  the  shadow,  formu- 
lated his  plans  for  the  crime. 

'^You  have  sworn  it  on  your  child,  remember. 
If  you  break  your  oath,  he  will  be  the  sufferer. ' ' 

Tioka  turned  to  us  with  shrill  laughter.  *'0h, 
look,  mama,  how  beautiful  it  all  is !  Look  at  that 
fat  policeman  dancing. ' ' 

''"When  Kamarowsky  finds  you  here — "  Prilu- 
koff went  on ;  but  I  interrupted  him. 

*'No,  no.     Let  us  leave  Vienna  at  once." 

''It  is  useless.  He  will  find  us  all  the  same. 
You  are  too  striking,"  he  added,  "to  pass  unob- 
served." And  with  a  cynical  laugh  he  surveyed 
me  from  head  to  foot.  "He  had  better  not  find 
me  with  you.  I  shall  remain  at  the  Hotel  Vic- 
toria; but  you  and  Tioka  must  go  to  the  Bristol, 
and  when  that  man  joins  you,  this  is  what  you 
must  do — " 

His  iniquitous  suggestions  floated  on  the  buoy- 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  245 

ant  waltz  music  like  carrion  on  the  surface  of  a 
sparkling  stream. 

I  shuddered  in  horror.  ''No,  no,"  I  murmured. 
' '  Have  pity !    No  ...  no ! " 

Oh!  that  music  of  Lehar's,  that  every  one  knows 
and  every  one  whistles,  and  that  is  played  by  every 
organ  at  every  street-corner — what  monstrous 
secrets  does  it  murmur  to  my  heart ! 

Ich  gehe  zu  Maxim, 

Da  bin  ich  sehr  intim  .  .  . 

The  joyous  verses  ring  in  my  ears  like  the 
shrieks  of  maleficent  Furies,  scourging  me  with 
nefarious  counsels  and  diabolic  commands.  .  .  . 

And  while  little  Tioka  laughs  and  claps  his 
hands,  I,  his  mother,  sink  ever  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  gulf  of  despair;  and  crime,  like  a  sea  of 
mire,  closes  its  corrupt  waves  over  my  head. 


XXXVI 

Everything  came  about  as  Prilukoff  had  fore- 
seen. Kamarowsky  found  me  the  following  eve- 
ning alone  with  Tioka  at  the  Bristol  Hoteh  He 
overwhelmed  me  with  reproaches  and  with  endear- 
ments. 

I  maintained  a  mysterious  silence,  which  he  in- 
terpreted merely  as  the  caprice  of  a  spoiled  child ; 
nor  did  he  take  umbrage  at  it.  He  was  too  happy 
at  having  found  me  to  care  to  quarrel  either  with 
the  Fates  or  with  me.  All  he  said  was :  **  Marie, 
I  shall  not  leave  you  again."  And  the  promise 
sounded  almost  like  a  threat. 

For  some  time  Prilukoff  gave  no  sign.  I  might 
have  thought  he  had  forgotten  me.  He  had  fixed 
a  definitive  space  of  time :  ten  days. 

On  the  eighth  day  he  sent  me  a  note,  telling  me 
to  come  to  the  Hotel  Victoria  that  evening  at  nine 
0  'clock.  He  would  then  provide  we  with  what  was 
needful.  I  was  not  to  fail — or  he  would  come  him- 
self. 

I  dined  with  Paul  Kamarowsky  as  usual;  then, 
pleading  a  headache,  I  retired  to  my  room  at  eight 
0  'clock. 

246 


MAKIE  TARNOWSKA  247 

Half  an  hour  later  a  closed  carriage  was  con- 
veying me  to  the  Hotel  Victoria. 

From  Prilukoff's  hands  I  received  a  syringe, 
two  tiny  bottles,  and  a  box  filled  with  globules  of 
curare,  nitrate  of  amyl  and  chloroform.  From 
his  set  gray  lips  I  received  instructions  how  to  use 
these  things.  His  teeth  were  chattering  as  well 
as  my  own;  his  hands  were  ice-cold  and  his  eyes 
distraught. 

Then  I  fell  on  my  knees  at  his  feet.  I  implored 
him  with  all  the  strength  of  desperation  to  forego 
his  abominable  purpose.  I  reminded  him  of  his 
past,  of  his  unsullied  youth,  of  the  kind  and  gen- 
erous love  that  had  at  first  bound  him  to  me ;  with 
tears  streaming  down  my  face  I  clung  to  his  knees 
and  swore  to  him  eternal  gratitude,  eternal  devo- 
tion, if  only  he  would  not  stain  my  soul  with  crime, 
if  only  he  would  not  ruin  himself  forever  with  so 
dark  and  vile  a  deed. 

I  beat  my  forehead  against  his  feet,  entreating 
of  him  death  for  myself,  but  pity,  pity  for  a  gen- 
erous, chivalrous  man  whose  only  wish  was  to 
protect  and  save  me. 

What  heaven-inspired  words  were  granted  me 
that  I  was  able  to  move  him?  I  cannot  tell;  but 
suddenly  a  great  shudder  went  through  him  and 
agonized  sobs  shook  his  frame.    He  bent  down 


248  ^lARIE  TAENOWSKA 

and  raised  me.  Then  lie  sank  into  an  armcliair 
and  wept  aloud  with  uplifted  face,  a  terrible  spec- 
tacle of  anguish  and  desolation. 

I  also  wept,  kneeling  beside  him,  kissing  his 
hands,  thanking  him,  blessing  him. 

''Donat,  dearest,  do  not  weep!  It  has  been  all 
a  dream — a  fearful  dream.  We  were  ill — we  were 
poor  demented  creatures.  God  will  not  remember 
it — He  will  cancel  and  forgive  everything.  Let  us 
thank  Him,  Donat,  for  not  permitting  us  to  do 
harm  to  any  one.  Let  us  begin  life  all  over  again 
— a  new,  honorable  life. ' ' 

*'Ah,  no,"  groaned  Prilukoff.  *'I  am  a  crimi- 
nal.   I  have  stolen ! ' ' 

"Never  mind,  never  mind.  You  will  give  it 
all  back.  I  will  help  you  to  give  it  all  back.  We 
must  be  prepared  to  face  suffering  and  humilia- 
tion, but  we  shall  atone ;  we  shall  take  up  our  lives 
again,  and  retrieve  and  redeem  the  past." 

Even  while  I  spoke  I  resolved  that  I  would  con- 
fess everything  to  Kamarowsky,  and  this  thought 
filled  me  with  joy.  I  would  reveal  to  him  the  dark- 
est recesses  of  my  soul;  I  would  confess  the 
iniquitous  treachery  plotted  against  him,  my  every 
act  of  baseness  and  of  shame.  He  would  drive  me 
from  him  in  loathing,  he  would  tread  me  under 
foot  like  some  poisonous  thing,  but  I  would  bow 


MARIE  TAENOWSKA  249 

my  liead  beneath  his  wrath  and  his  disdain.  I 
would  go  far  away  and  live  the  rest  of  my  life  in 
humility  and  penitence.  I  would  perhaps  link  my 
fate  with  that  of  Prilukoff,  the  degraded  outcast 
.  .  .  yes,  my  penance  should  be  to  stay  forever 
with  him  who  inspired  me  now  with  so  much  hor- 
ror and  fear.  .  .  . 

Carried  away  by  an  ecstasy  of  feeling,  we  knelt 
down  in  that  paltry  hotel-room  and  thanked  God 
for  having  opened  our  eyes,  for  having  touched 
our  hearts,  for  having  saved  us.  Then  praying 
aloud :  "Lord,  let  not  our  sins  be  counted  against 
us  .  .  ."we  broke  the  syringe  and  the  phials  of 
poison  into  a  thousand  fragments.  Prilukoff  tore 
the  flesh  of  his  hands  as  he  snapped  the  hollow 
steel  needle,  which  thrust  itself  into  his  palm  like 
some  fierce,  living  thing.  "Blot  out  our  trans- 
gressions and  remember  not  our  iniquities  .  .  ." 
We  trampled  on  the  globules  of  amyl  and  chloro- 
form, setting  free  the  lethal  vapors,  which  turned 
us  giddy.  Intoxicated  with  them  and  with  our 
own  emotions  we  fell  once  more  on  our  knees, 
praying  with  uplifted  hands:  "Deliver  us  from 
our  sins  .  .  .  of  Thy  mercy  save  us  .  .  .  save 


us  .  .  ." 


xxxvn 

I  EEMEMBER  that  oiice  in  our  cMldhood  we  were 
by  the  sea — I  cannot  tell  in  what  country  we  were, 
nor  what  sea  it  was — and  our  English  governess 
took  us  out  one  morning  on  the  beach  to  see  a 
tidal  wave. 

''What  is  a  tidal  wave,  Miss  Williams'?"  we 
inquired. 

' '  Two  or  three  immense  waves  which  only  come 
once  a  year,"  replied  the  sibylline  Miss  Williams. 
''Now  keep  quiet  and  look." 

We  kept  quiet  and  looked.  And  presently  we 
thought  we  could  see  a  huge  wave,  larger  than  all 
the  others,  coming  towards  us  from  the  horizon. 

"Look!    Look  there!     It  is  the  tidal  wave ! " 

"No,"  said  Miss  Williams.    "That  is  not  it." 

And,  indeed,  presently  there  appeared  a  wave 
which  was  greater  still — it  reared  its  crest,  tow- 
ered aloft,  and  fell. 

"That  was  it!    That  was  it!" 

But  still  farther  away,  on  the  line  of  the  horizon, 
a  mighty  wave — a  veritable  wall  of  water — was 
approaching,  formidable,  gigantic,  fabulous.  .  .  . 

That  was  the  "tidal  wave." 

250 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  251 

In  tlie  course  of  my  life,  when  events  tragic  and 
inexorable  liave  raised  tlieir  threatening  billows 
above  me  and  caught  me  in  their  crashing  down- 
fall, sweeping  me  like  a  piece  of  frail  wreckage 
towards  destruction,  I  have  said  to  myself: 
''This  is  the  tidal  wave.  Nothing  worse  can  fol- 
low. Nothing  more  terrible  than  this  can  come 
upon  me." 

But  lo!  behind  that  great  wave  of  calamity 
another  and  still  greater  has  followed,  and  still 
another  and  another — fabulous  waves  of  tragedy 
and  disaster. 

Thus  it  was  that  when  I  left  Prilukoff  that  eve- 
ning I  thought  that  the  tidal  wave  of  my  destiny 
had  at  last  passed  over  me.  Nothing  more  could 
crush  and  overwhelm  me ;  before  me  stretched  only 
the  limitless  levels  of  grief  and  remorse. 

But  it  was  not  so.  Another — the  last — wave  of 
disaster  was  rearing  itself  like  the  fabulous  wall 
of  water  of  my  childhood's  recollections,  carrying 
me  on  its  crest,  crashing  down  with  me  to  irreme- 
diable ruin,  to  the  fathomless  abyss  of  crime. 

That  very  night  Tioka  fell  ill.  Elise  came  hur- 
riedly into  my  room  to  call  me.  ''Come  at  once, 
my  lady.  The  young  master  is  very  ill.  He  is 
delirious  and  keeps  talking  to  himself. ' ' 


252  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

I  ran  into  the  child's  room.  He  was  sitting  up 
in  bed,  his  wide  eyes  glowing  in  his  fevered  face. 
Where  and  when  had  I  once  before  seen  him  like 
this?  ... 

His  mind  was  wandering,  and  he  talked  inces- 
santly— about  Tania  whom  he  had  not  seen  or 
mentioned  for  the  past  two  years,  about  his  grand- 
mother, and  the  old  dog  Bear.  Then  suddenly 
he  asked  for  a  picture  and  for  some  poetry. 
''Mama,"  he  said,  clinging  to  my  neck,  ''say  the 
poetry  to  me,  the  poetry — " 

"What  poetry,  oh,  my  darling,  my  darling?" 

"The  poetry  about  the  picture.  Say  it.  Say 
it."  He  began  to  cry  and  tremble  with  his  hot 
cheek  close  to  mine. 

I  racked  my  brain  for  a  poem : 

"This  is  the  miller  who  lives  in  the  mill, 
The  mill  beside  the  river,  oh !  .  .  ." 

' '  No,  no,  no ! "  cried  the  child.     ' '  Not  that ! ' ' 
I  tried  again: 

"Brown-eyed  Peter  is  going  for  a  soldier; 
Going  for  a  soldier  with  his  little  turn-up  nose  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,  no!"  shrieked  Tioka  despairingly. 
"Tania,  Tania — the  moon — the  picture.  Say  it 
quickly ! ' ' 

A  lightning  flash  seemed  to  tear  the  clouds  of 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  253 

oblivion  from  my  brain  and  illuminate  the  past. 
I  was  once  more  in  Vassili's  country  house  .  .  . 
once  more  I  entered  the  dim  white  nursery  where 
my  children,  like  two  blonde  seraphs,  lay  asleep. 
...  A  lamp  hanging  between  the  two  little  cots 
lit  up  an  artless  picture  hanging  on  the  wall — a 
rippling-haired  Madonna  standing  in  a  star-lit 
sky,  holding  in  her  youthful  arms  the  infant  Jesus 
with  a  count's  coronet  on  His  head. 

Crying  softly  as  I  cradled  my  son's  fair  head 
upon  my  breast,  I  began : 

"When  little  children  sleep,  the  Virgin  Mary- 
Steps  with  white  feet  upon  the  crescent  moon  .  .  ." 

•  ••••••• 

Tioka  grew  worse.  With  glittering  eyes  and 
thin  red  cheeks  he  cried  all  day  long  that  he 
w^anted  Grania — that  he  wanted  Tania.  But 
Grania  had  been  sent  away  hurriedly  for  fear  of 
infection — Count  Kamarowsky's  sister  had  come 
and  taken  him  away — and  Tania,  alas !  the  gentle 
little  Tania,  far  away  in  the  castle  of  the  Tar- 
nowskys,  had  doubtless  long  since  forgotten  her 
brother  Tioka  and  her  heart-broken  mother  as 
well. 

The  doctors  shook  their  heads  gravely  as  they 
stood  by  the  tumbled  cot  in  which  the  little  boy 
tossed    and    moaned    ceaselessly:    ''A    train — a 


254  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

train  is  running  over  my  head.  Take  it  away! 
It  hurts  me,  it  hurts  me  .  .  ."  And  as  they 
looked  into  his  throat,  which  was  dark  red,  almost 
purple  in  hue,  they  murmured:  ''Diphtheria? 
Scarlet  fever?"  Then  they  went  away,  convers- 
ing in  low  tones,  leaving  me  beside  myself  with 
grief  and  terror. 

Kamarowsky  watched  with  me  night  and  day. 
Sometimes  he  fell  asleep;  and  when  I  saw  him 
sleeping,  the  old,  unreasoning  hatred  for  him 
stirred  in  my  heart  again. 

Prilukoff  had  left  the  Hotel  Victoria,  and  had 
taken  a  room  at  the  Bristol  to  be  near  us.  Occa- 
sionally I  saw  him  for  a  moment  standing  mourn- 
ful and  depressed  outside  my  door.  We  looked 
at  each  other  with  anguish-stricken  eyes,  but  we 
scarcely  ever  spoke.  I  had  no  thought  for  any- 
thing but  Tioka. 

One  night — the  fourth  since  he  had  been  taken 
ill — the  child,  who  had  been  dozing  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, awoke  coughing  and  choking. 

''Mother,  mother!"  he  gasped,  fixing  his  large 
frightened  eyes  upon  me.  "Why  do  you  let  me 
die?"     Then  he  closed  his  eyes  again. 

I  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  It  was  true.  It 
was  I,  I  who  was  letting  him  die.  That  idea  had 
already  flitted  through  my  brain,  but  I  had  never 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  255 

dared  to  formulate  the  awful  thought.  As  soon 
as  he  had  fallen  ill  I  had  said  to  myself:  ''This 
is  retribution.  Did  I  not  vow  on  Tioka's 
life?  .  .  ." 

I  saw  myself  again  at  the  theater  on  the  evening 
of  "The  Merry  Widow,"  and  Prilukoff  pointing 
to  the  child's  angel  head  and  whispering:  "If 
you  break  your  word,  it  is  he  who  will  pay  for  it. ' ' 

Yes ;  Tioka  was  paying  for  it.  He  was  paying 
for  the  iniquitous  vow  that  had  been  wrung  from 
me  that  night  at  Orel  when  the  three  men  pursued 
me  in  the  darkness.  With  his  revolver  pressed 
against  his  temple  Prilukoff  had  bidden  me: 
"Swear!"  Ah,  why  had  I  not  let  his  fate  over- 
take him?  Why  had  he  not  pulled  the  trigger  and 
fallen  dead  at  my  feet?  Naumoff  would  have 
rushed  in,  and  Kamarowsky  would  have  broken  in 
the  door,  and  the  w^hole  of  the  triple  treachery  and 
fraud  and  dishonor  would  have  been  revealed ;  but, 
at  least,  I  should  have  been  free — free  to  take  my 
child  and  wander  with  him  through  the  wide  spaces 
of  the  world.  Whereas,  coward  that  I  had  been, 
the  fear  of  disgrace  had  vanquished  me,  and  the 
threat  of  ignominy  and  death  had  dragged  the  in- 
human vow  from  my  lips.  .  .  .  And  now  Tioka 
was  paying  for  it. 

The  fierce  primitive  instinct  of  maternity  awoke 


256  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

within  me.  Weakened  by  illness  and  wakefulness, 
my  spirit  lost  itself  again  in  the  dark  labyrinth  of 
superstition.  My  frantic  gaze  passed  from  Tioka 
— lying  wan  and  wasted  on  his  pillows,  gasping 
like  a  little  dying  bird — to  Kamarowsky  stretched 
out  in  an  armchair,  with  his  flaccid  hands  hanging 
at  his  sides  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  relaxed  in 
sleep.  I  looked  at  him;  I  seemed  to  see  him  for 
the  first  time — this  man  to  save  whose  life  I  was 
sacrificing  my  own  child's.  Yes,  Tioka  was  dying 
in  order  that  this  stranger,  this  outsider,  this 
enemy  might  live. 

When  I  turned  towards  Tioka  again  I  saw  that 
his  eyes  were  open  and  fixed  upon  me.  I  fell  on 
my  knees  beside  him  and  whispered  wildly: 
''Darling,  darling,  I  will  not  let  you  die.  No,  my 
soul,  my  own,  I  will  save  you.  You  shall  get  well 
again  and  run  out  and  play  in  the  sunshine.  .  .  . 
The  other  one  shall  die — but  not  you,  not  you! 
Now  you  will  get  well  immediately.  Are  you  not 
better  already,  my  love,  my  own?  Are  you  not 
better  already?" 

And  my  boy,  cradled  in  my  arms,  smiled  faintly 
as  my  soft  wild  whispers  lulled  him  to  sleep. 

This  idea  now  took  possession  of  my  brain, 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  others.  I  thought  and 
dreamed  of  nothing  else.     Tioka  had  scarlet  fever 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  257 

and  the  fluctuations  in  his  illness  seemed  to  de- 
pend solely  upon  me.  When  I  told  myself  that 
I  was  firmly,  irrevocably  resolved  to  compass  the 
death  of  Kamarowsky,  the  child's  fever  seemed  to 
abate,  his  throat  was  less  inflamed,  the  pains  in  his 
head  diminished.  But  if,  as  I  grew  calmer  and 
clung  to  hope  again,  I  hesitated  in  my  ruthless 
purpose,  lo !  the  fever  seized  him  anew,  the  rush- 
ing trains  went  thundering  over  his  temples,  and 
his  tender  throat  swelled  until  he  could  hardly 
draw  his  breath. 

Prilukoff  followed  the  oscillations  of  my  dis- 
tracted spirit  with  weary  resignation;  he  was  be- 
numbed and  apathetic,  without  mind  and  without 
will.  When  in  the  fixity  of  my  mania  I  insisted 
upon  the  necessity  of  the  crime,  he  would  answer 
languidly :  ' '  Oh,  no.  Leave  it  alone.  Let  things 
be." 

Then  I  grew  more  and  more  frenzied,  weeping 
and  tearing  my  hair. 

"Can  you  not  understand  that  Tioka  is  dying? 
Tioka,  my  little  Tioka  is  dying !  And  it  is  we  who 
are  killing  him. ' ' 

"No,  no,"  sighed  Prilukoff.  "Let  things 
alone." 

Tioka  grew  worse. 

A  day  came  when  he  could  not  see  me  or  hear 


258  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

me — when  he  lay  quite  still  with  scarcely  flickering 
breath.  Then  I  rose  as  one  in  a  dream.  I  went 
to  Prilukoff's  room. 

He  sat  listlessly  by  the  window,  smoking.  I 
seized  him  by  the  arm. 

''Donat  Prilukoff,  I  renew  my  oath.  Paul 
Kamarowsky  shall  die  within  this  year!" 

''All  right,  all  right!"  grumbled  Prilukoff, 
wearied  to  exhaustion  by  my  constant  changes  of 
mood.  "Let  us  finish  him  once  for  all,  and  have 
done  with  it." 

I  gasped.  "Where?  When?  Is  it  you  who 
wiU— " 

Prilukoff  raised  his  long,  languid  eyes.  ' '  What- 
ever you  like,"  he  said.  Then  he  added  in  a  spent 
voice:    "I  am  very  tired." 

And  it  was  I  who  urged  him,  who  pushed  him 
on,  who  hurried  him  to  think  out  and  shape  our 
plans.  He  was  languid  and  inert.  Sometimes  he 
would  look  dully  at  me  and  say:  "What  a  ter- 
rible woman  you  are."  But  I  thought  only  of 
Tioka,  and  my  eager  and  murderous  frenzy  in- 
creased. 

And  behold!  Tioka  got  better.  This  chance 
coincidence  assumed  in  my  diseased  brain  the 
character  of  a  direct  answer  from  heaven.  The 
sacrifice  had  been  accepted ! 


MARIE  TARNOWSI^J^  259 

A  year  later,  wlien  I  stood  before  tlie  judges 
who  were  to  sentence  me,  no  word  of  this  delusion 
passed  my  lips.  Demented  though  I  was,  I  knew 
myself  to  be  demented ;  I  knew  that  this  idea  of  a 
barter  with  heaven  was  an  insensate  idea;  and 
yet,  by  some  fallacy  of  my  hallucinated  brain,  I 
believed — do  I  not  even  now  believe  it? — that  my 
vow  had  been  heard,  that  my  word  must  be  kept, 
that  one  life  must  be  bought  with  the  other. 

Even  so,  better,  far  better  would  it  have  been  to 
let  my  child's  white  soul  flutter  heavenwards,  than 
to  retain  it  with  my  blood-stained  hand. 

But  at  that  time  my  one  thought  was  to  save 
him,  even  though  for  his  life,  not  one,  but  a  thou- 
sand others  had  been  immolated. 

The  day  came  when  I  was  able  to  carry  him  in 
my  arms  from  his  cot  to  an  easy  chair  beside  the 
window.  What  a  joy  was  that  brief  transit !  His 
frail  arms  were  round  my  neck  and  his  head  lay 
on  my  shoulder.  With  slow,  lingering  steps  I 
went,  loth  to  leave  him  out  of  my  embrace. 

A  sweet  Italian  verse  came  light  and  fragrant 
into  my  memory: 

I  thought  I  bore  a  flower  within  my  arms  .  .  . 

It  was  Prilukoff  who  reminded  me  with  a  cynical 
smile  that  the  vow  included  also  Nicolas  Naumoff. 


260  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

Nicolas  Naumoff !  I  had  almost  forgotten  liim. 
Nicolas  Naumoff !  Must  he,  this  distant  and  for- 
gotten stranger,  also  die? 

I  cannot  tell  which  of  us  it  was  who  conceived 
the  idea  of  making  use  of  him  as  our  instrument 
— of  destroying  him  by  making  him  a  weapon  of 
destruction,  of  murdering  him  by  making  him  a 
murderer. 

The  idea  may  have  been  mine.  I  feared  that 
I  could  not  rely  upon  the  languid,  listless  Prilukoff. 
Yes ;  it  must  have  been  I  who  devised  this  method 
of  propitiating  the  avenging  Fates,  and  averting 
from  us  the  imminent  Nemesis. 

"A  good  idea,"  said  Prilukotf  wearily.  "Let 
Naumoff  do  it."    And  he  lighted  a  cigarette. 

I  gazed  at  him,  aquiver  with  superstitious  dread. 
''Do  you  think  that  then  Naumoff  need  not  diel 
Do  you  think  that" — I  hesitated — "that  will  be 
enough*?  ..." 

Prilukoff  turned  and  looked  at  me  as  if  aghast. 
Then  he  nodded  his  head  and  the  fearful,  crooked 
smile  distorted  his  countenance. 

' '  Yes, ' '  he  said.    * '  I  think  that  will  be  enough. ' ' 


XXXVIII 

To  what  end  should  I  narrate  anew  the  terrible 
story  which  is  known  to  alU  Must  I  dip  again 
into  the  soilure  and  abomination  of  that  awful 
time?  How  dare  I  tell  of  the  luring  telegrams 
sent  to  the  distant  Naumoff,  my  guileless  and  im- 
passioned lover,  and  of  the  joy  and  gratitude  with 
which  he  hastened  to  me?  How  describe  the  slow, 
insidious  poisoning  of  his  mind  against  Kama- 
rowsky,  the  hatred  subtly  instilled  in  him  against 
that  unconscious,  kindly  man?  And  the  lies,  the 
slanders,  the  ambiguous  disclosures  of  pretended 
outrages  inflicted  upon  me,  of  insults  and  injuries 
I  feigned  to  have  suffered  at  Kamarowsky's 
hands?  .  .  . 

Naumoff  believed  it  all.  His  astonishment  and 
indignation  knew  no  bounds.  What?  Kama- 
rowsky,  whom  he  had  always  thought  the  most 
chivalrous  and  considerate  of  men,  was  a  despica- 
ble, worthless  coward?  Well,  Naumoff  would 
challenge  him;  he  would  fight  a  duel  to  the  death 
with  him  who  had  been  his  best  friend. 

But  not  that,  not  that  was  what  I  wanted. 

261 


262  IMARIE  TARNOWSKA 

Tioka  recovered.  Taller,  thinner  and  paler,  he 
came  out  once  more  into  the  sunshine,  leaning 
on  my  arm,  enraptured  at  everything,  greet- 
ing every  ray  of  light  and  every  winged  or 
flowering  thing  as  if  it  were  a  new  acquaint- 
ance. 

Not  for  an  instant  did  I  suffer  my  mind  to 
waver.  God,  the  terrible  God  of  my  disordered 
fancy,  had  accepted  the  compact,  and  it  was  now 
for  me  to  carry  it  out. 

As  soon  as  Tioka  w^as  well  enough  to  travel,  I 
sent  him  to  Eussia  to  some  of  our  relations. 
While  I  was  discharging  my  debt  for  his  life,  he 
must  be  far  away. 

Then  began  the  ghastly  game,  the  sinister 
comedy  with  the  three  puppets,  whose  strings  I 
held  in  my  fragile  hands.  I  had  to  tranquilize 
and  disarm  Kamarowsky;  to  kindle  and  fan  the 
murderous  fury  of  Prilukoff ;  and  above  all  to  en- 
chain and  infatuate  Naumoff,  so  as  to  impel  him 
to  the  crime. 

Ah,  every  art  that  Lilith,  daughter  of  Eve  and 
of  the  Serpent,  has  bequeathed  to  woman,  every 
insidious  perversity  and  subtle  wile  did  I  bring 
into  play  to  charm  and  enamor  this  youthful 
dreamer.    "With  every  incitement  did  I  lure  and 


MAEIE  TARNOWSKA  263 

tempt  liim;  with  every  witchery  did  I  entangle 
him  in  the  meshes  of  my  perversity  and  in  the 
whirlwind  of  my  golden  hair. 

I  was  indeed  the  modern  Circe,  weaving  her 
evil  spell.  I  was  fervent  and  temerarious,  full  of 
exotic  anomalies,  eccentric,  unexpected.  ...  I  de- 
lighted in  causing  him  both  pleasure  and  suffering 
in  a  thousand  unnatural  and  outrageous  ways;  I 
cut  my  initials  in  his  arm  with  the  triangular  blade 
of  a  dagger ;  I  pressed  my  lighted  cigarette  upon 
his  hand ;  I  assumed  all  the  absurdities,  perversi- 
ties and  puerilities  with  which  since  time  im- 
memorial woman  has  decoyed  and  beguiled  man, 
who,  after  all,  is  essentially  a  simple-minded  and 
ingenuous  being. 

Nicolas  Naumoff  was  dazed  and  fascinated  by 
all  this  strange  hysteria  and  subtlety.  He  be- 
lieved himself  to  be  the  hero  of  a  fabulous  passion 
— the  incomparable  conqueror  of  a  wondrous  and 
portentous  love. 

There  were  times  when  I  myself  was  carried 
away  by  this  play  of  my  own  invention.  Now  and 
then  I  lost  sight  of  the  grim  purpose  of  this  proc- 
ess of  seduction ;  I  rejoiced  in  my  own  coquetries, 
and  myself  burned  in  the  flame  I  had  deliberately 
kindled. 


264  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

One  evening  as  he  knelt  before  me,  pressing  my 
cool  liands  against  his  fevered  forehead,  I  bent 
over  him  with  a  smile. 

''Why  do  you  love  me  so  much!"  I  asked. 
' '  Tell  me.     Tell  me  the  truth. ' ' 

He  answered  me  gravely  in  a  deep  voice, 
enumerating  the  reasons  on  my  fingers  as  he  held 
them  in  his  own. 

''I  love  you  because  you  are  beautiful  and  ter- 
rible. Because  you  have  that  white,  subtle  face, 
and  that  mouth  that  is  like  a  greedy  rose,  and 
those  long,  cruel  eyes  ...  I  love  you  because  you 
are  different  from  all  others,  better  or  worse  than 
all,  more  intelligent  and  more  passionate  than  all." 
He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  ''And  also  because 
you  have  forced  me  to  love  you. ' ' 

Yes.  I  had  forced  him  to  love  me.  And  now 
he  was  what  I  wanted  him  to  be — an  instrument 
ready  to  my  hand:  a  fierce  and  docile  instrument 
of  death,  a  submissive  and  murderous  weapon. 

June  crept  warmly  up  from  the  south,  and  mur- 
mured of  blue  waters  and  dancing  sunlight. 

"Mura,  let  us  go  to  Venice,"  said  Paul  Kama- 
rowsky  one  afternoon  as  he  sat  beside  me  on  the 
balcony;  "let  us  pass  these  last  three  months  of 
waiting  at  the  Lido.    If  needs  be,  I  can  take  you 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  265 

back  to  Russia  later  on,  to  complete  the  few  for- 
malities that  must  precede  our  marriage." 

''To  Venice!"  I  said  faintly. 

Paul  Kamarowsky  smiled. 

"Ti  guardo  e  palpito,  Venezia  mia" 

he  quoted  under  his  breath.     And  bending  for- 
ward, he  kissed  my  trembling  lips. 


XXXIX 

We  prepared  to  leave.  Naumoff 's  despair  was 
puerile  and  clamorous.  I  entreated  him  to  go 
back  to  Orel  and  wait  for  me  there,  and  I  promised 
him  that  I  would  soon  return  to  Eussia  and  see 
him  again.  As  for  Prilukoff,  he  awakened  from 
his  lethargy  with  the  roar  of  a  wounded  wild  beast. 
*  *  To  Venice !  You  are  going  to  Venice  with  that 
man?    Is  that  how  you  keep  your  vow?" 

''I  will  keep  it,  I  will  keep  it,"  I  cried.  "But 
I  said — it — it  should  be  done  within  the  year — 
this  is  only  June — we  can  wait  six  months  longer. ' ' 

''By  that  time  you  will  be  his  wife,"  snarled 
Prilukoff  between  clenched  teeth.  ''Unless  it  is 
done  within  the  next  three  months  you  know  it 
will  never  be  done  at  all.  Go  your  way,"  he 
jeered,  "do  as  you  like !  Play  fast  and  loose  with 
fate  as  you  have  played  fast  and  loose  with  me ! " 
He  turned  and  gripped  my  wrist.  "But  you  will 
escape  neither  of  us.  Fate  and  I  will  overtake 
you,  Marie  Tamowska,  be  it  in  Venice — or  in 
hell!" 

266 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  267 

We  left  for  the  Lido. 

And  while,  on  the  arm  of  my  bethrothed,  I 
wandered  by  the  dancing  waters,  and  the  golden 
hours  showered  their  light  upon  us,  in  my  dark 
heart  I  prayed : 

*'God,  give  me  strength  and  ruthlessness !  God, 
who  didst  guide  the  hand  of  Judith,  fill  my  soul 
with  violence  and  teach  my  hand  to  slay!" 

Prilukoff  followed  us  to  Verona.  Then  he  came 
after  us  to  Venice,  where  he  took  rooms  in  the 
same  hotel,  lurking  in  the  corridors,  shadowing  us 
in  the  streets,  pursuing  me  day  and  night  with 
his  misery  and  jealousy.  Occasionally  I  saw  him 
for  a  few  moments  alone,  and  then  we  would 
whisper  together  about  the  deed  that  was  to  be 
done,  speaking  feverishly  in  low  quick  tones  like 
demented  creatures.  If  I  wavered,  it  was  he  who 
reminded  me  ruthlessly  of  my  child  and  of  my 
vow;  if  he  hesitated,  it  was  I  who  with  the  in- 
sensate perversity  of  madness  urged  him  on  to- 
wards the  crime. 

One  evening — ah,  how  well  do  I  remember  that 
radiant  summer  sunset  beneath  which  the  lagoon 
lay  like  a  fluid  sheet  of  copper! — he  met  me  on 
the  Lido.  He  was  morose  and  gloomy.  He  took 
from  his  pocket  a  black  crumpled  package.    It  was 


268  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

Elise's  old  satchel — tlie  ''white  elephant,"  tat- 
tered, empty,  dead. 

With  a  vehement  movement  he  flung  it  into  the 
water.  Where  it  fell  the  sheet  of  copper  shivered 
into  a  thousand  splinters  of  red  gold. 

''Empty?"  I  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"Empty,"  he  replied. 

"And  now,  what  will  you  do?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  then  that 
the  idea  came  to  him — the  execrable,  the  nefari- 
ous idea. 

"Listen.  As  he" — ^with  a  movement  of  his 
head  he  indicated  the  absent  Kamarowsky — "is 
doomed — I  suppose  he  is  doomed,  isn't  he?"  he 
interposed. 

I  assented  in  a  barely  audible  whisper:  "Yes." 

"Well,  his — his  disappearance  may  as  well  be 
of  some  use.     Do  you  not  think  so  ? " 

Seeing  the  look  of  horror  which  I  turned  upon 
him,  he  continued:  "For  goodness'  sake  don't 
let  us  behave  like  romantic  fools.  We  are  not  a 
pair  of  poetic  assassins  in  a  play,  are  we?" 

Gradually,  by  subtle  pleading  and  plausible 
argument,  he  led  my  weak  brain  to  view  the  idea 
with  less  horror.  He  assured  me  that  we  had  not 
only  the  right  but  almost  the  duty  to  commit  this 
enormity.    According  to  him,  it  was  not  a  shame^ 


I  I .'      i    iji*'--! 


I 


L  *  * 

I  r  1  if    " 


UNDER    ARREST 


MARIE  TARNOWSI^  269 

ful  and  disgraceful  deed.  No;  it  was  a  just, 
reasonable,  logical  thing  to  do. 

''Of  course,  it  is  not  as  if  we  were  getting  rid 
of  a  man  simply  in  order  to  plunder  him  of  his 
money.  No,  indeed.  That  would  be  vile,  that 
would  be  abominable.  But,  given  the  necessity 
— the  irrevocableness — of  his  fate,  why  should 
we  not  see  to  it  that  his  death  may  at  least  be 
of  some  use  to  some  one!  Not  to  ourselves,  re- 
member. The  money  you  get  from  him  shall  be 
used  to  serve  a  just  purpose — to  redress  a  wrong. 
We  shall  make  restitution  to  those  I  have  de- 
spoiled. I  will  pay  back  what  I  took  from  my 
clients  to  the  very  last  farthing.  And  anything 
that  is  left  over  shall  be  given  in  charity  to  the 
poor.  What  do  you  say  to  that?  We  shall  keep 
nothing  for  ourselves — nothing.     Do  you  agree!" 

He  went  on  to  recall  that  among  the  clients  he 
had  defrauded  was  a  widow  with  four  little  chil- 
dren; the  thought  of  her,  he  said,  had  always 
worried  him.  It  was  good  to  think  that  she 
would  recover  every  penny. 

The  advocate  in  him  awoke,  eloquent  and  con- 
vincing, until  he  ended  by  assuring  me  that  we 
should  be  performing  a  meritorious  deed. 

Indignant  at  first,  then  uncertain,  then  reluc- 
tant, I  was  finally  persuaded.     Soon  I  heard  my- 


270  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

self  repeating  after  him:  ''It  will  be  a  meri- 
torious deed." 

Ah,  if  such  beings  as  evil  spirits  exist,  with  what 
laughter  must  they  have  listened  to  our  talk  in  that 
exquisite  evening  hour. 

It  was  Prilukoff  who  thought  out  the  details  and 
settled  the  plan. 

"You  must  get  him  to  insure  his  life." 

"How  can  11"  I  cried  feebly  and  tearfully. 
"How  can  one  possibly  suggest  such  a  thing?" 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Prilukoff,  reverting 
to  his  Moscow  manner. 

Next  day  he  showed  me  a  letter  written  by  him- 
self in  a  disguised  hand. 

' '  Open  this  letter  when  he  is  present,  and  when 
he  insists  on  seeing  it,  show  it  to  him  .  .  .  reluc- 
tantly!" 

' '  But  what  if  he  does  not  insist ! ' ' 

"You  must  make  him  insist,"  said  Prilukoff. 

The  letter  was  brought  to  me  in  Kamarowsky's 
presence,  and  when  he  saw  me  turning  scarlet  and 
then  pale  as  I  opened  it,  he  insisted  on  seeing  what 
it  contained. 

I  showed  it  to  him  .  .  .  reluctantly. 

The  letter  was  in  Prilukoff 's  handwriting,  but 
was    signed    "Ivan    Troubetzkoi. "    The    prince 


MARIE  TAENOWSKA  271 

(whom  I  scarcely  remembered,  and  whom  I  had 
not  seen  for  more  than  six  years)  begged  me  to 
marry  him,  and  as  proof  of  his  devotion  offered 
to  make  a  will  in  my  favor  and,  in  addition,  to 
insure  his  life  for  half  a  million  francs. 

Paul  Kamarowsky  was  aghast. 

''Is  everybody  trying  to  steal  you  away  from 
me.  Mural"  he  exclaimed  brokenly;  then  he  sat 
down  on  the  sofa  with  his  head  in  his  hands.  I 
gazed  at  him,  feeling  as  if  I  should  die  with  sorrow 
and  remorse. 

For  a  long  time  he  did  not  speak.  Then  he 
drew  me  to  him. 

''Dear  one,  do  not  heed  the  offers  of  other 
people.  No  one,  whether  he  be  prince  or  moujik, 
can  love  you  more  than  I  do.  No  one  will  do 
more  for  you  than  I  am  willing  to  do.  I,  also,  am 
ready  to  make  a  will  in  your  favor;  I,  also,  will 
insure  my  life  for  half  a  million  francs." 

"No,  no,"  I  cried,  crushed  with  misery  and 
shame. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will.  It  shall  be  done  immediately. 
To-day." 

And  it  was  done. 

"You  see?"  cried  Prilukoff  triumphantly,  "I 
am  not  quite  a  fool  yet,  am  I?     Hush  now,  don't 


272  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

cry.  Remember  that  it  is  not  for  ourselves,  but 
to  make  an  honorable  act  of  restitution." 

"But  a  hundred  thousand  francs  would  have 
been  enough  for  that, ' '  I  sobbed. 

' '  The  other  four  hundred  thousand  we  shall  give 
to  the  poor,"  said  Prilukoff.  "It  will  be  a  meri- 
torious deed." 


XL 

I  KEMEMBER  that  wheii  I  was  a  child  I  was  taken 
to  a  fair  and  given  a  ride  on  a  switchback  railway. 
I  was  scarcely  seated  in  the  car,  with  the  straps 
round  my  waist  and  the  giddy  track  before  me, 
than  I  cried  to  get  out  again.  But  the  car  was 
already  moving  forward,  slowly  gliding  down  the 
first  incline. 

I  screamed,  writhing  against  the  straps,  ''Stop! 
stop!  I  want  to  get  out.  I  want  to  go  back!" 
But  now  the  car  was  rushing  giddily,  in  leaps  and 
bounds,  down  one  slope  and  up  another,  whirling 
over  bridges  and  gulfs,  dashing  down  the  precipi- 
tous declivity  with  ever-increasing  speed. 

Even  thus  had  I  embarked,  almost  without 
realizing  it,  upon  the  rapid  slope  of  crime.  Im- 
pelled by  my  own  madness,  I  had  started  on  the 
vertiginous  course  to  perdition,  and  now  I  plunged 
downwards,  rolling,  leaping,  rushing  into  the  dark- 
ness, without  possibility  of  pause  or  return. 

It  was  Kamarowsky  himself  who  begged  me 
to  leave  Venice  for  Kieff,  where  some  formalities 

273 


274  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

still  remained  to  be  accomplished  before  our  im- 
pending marriage.  He  offered  to  accompany  me, 
but  I  declined.  He  resigned  himself,  therefore, 
though  with  reluctance,  to  allowing  me  to  start 
alone  with  Elise. 

''Now,"  said  Prilukoff,  on  the  eve  of  my  de- 
parture— and  the  transversal  vein  stood  out  like 
whipcord  on  his  forehead — "let  there  be  no  more 
backing  out  and  putting  off.  You  will  see  Nau- 
moff  in  Eussia ;  send  him  straight  back  here.  I  'm 
sick  of  this  business;  let  us  get  it  over." 

I  bowed  my  head  and  wept. 

Kamarowsky  took  me  to  the  railway  station, 
where  I  found  the  compartment  he  had  reserved 
for  me  already  filled  with  flowers.  I  thanked  him 
with  trembling  lips. 

''In  three  weeks,  my  love,"  he  said,  "you  will 
be  back  again,  and  then  I  shall  not  part  from  you 
any  more. ' '  He  kissed  me  and  stepped  down  upon 
the  platform,  where  he  stood  gazing  up  at  me  with 
smiling  eyes.  Many  people  stood  near,  watching 
us.  I  leaned  out  of  the  carriage  window,  and 
as  I  looked  at  him  I  kept  repeating  to  myself: 
"This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  see  him!  The  last 
time ! ' ' 

It  seemed  strange  and  incongruous  to  see  him 
there,  with  his  usual  aspect,  making  ordinary  ges- 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  275 

tures  and  uttering  commonplace  remarks.  Know- 
ing as  I  did  that  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of  death, 
I  wondered  that  he  had  not  a  more  staid  and 
solemn  demeanor,  slower,  graver  gestures  and 
memorable  words. 

Whereas  he  was  saying,  with  a  smile:  ''Mind 
you  don't  lose  your  purse;  and  remember  to  look 
after  your  luggage  at  the  Customs.  You  will  have 
the  dining-car  at  Bozen."  And  then,  looking 
about  him :  * '  Would  you  like  some  newspapers  1 ' ' 
He  hurried  away  after  the  newsvendor,  and  then 
counted  his  change  and  argued  about  a  coin  which 
he  thought  was  counterfeit.  He  came  back  to  my 
carriage  door,  handed  me  the  newspapers,  and 
with  his  handkerchief  dried  his  forehead  and  the 
inside  of  his  hat. 

''Fearfully  hot,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  me  with 
a  friendly  laugh. 

All  this  seemed  terribly  out  of  keeping  with,  the 
tragic  situation  of  which,  all  unconsciously,  he  was 
the  hero.  I  tried  to  say  something  tender  and 
affectionate  to  him,  but  my  agitation  stifled  me. 

"Mind  you  are  good,"  he  said,  still  smiling,  and 
he  threw  a  glance  at  some  officers  in  the  compart- 
ment next  to  mine. 

I  heard  the  doors  being  shut  and  the  guard  call- 
ing out  ''Partensa!"    My  heart  began  to  beat 


276  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

wildly.  I  felt  as  if  once  again  I  were  strapped 
in  the  car  on  the  switchback  railway.  I  wanted 
to  get  out,  to  stop,  to  turn  back.  A  whistle 
sounded  and  a  gong  was  struck. 

''Well,  Mura,  au  revoir/'  cried  Kamarowsky, 
stretching  up  his  hand  to  me.  "A  happy  journey 
and  all  blessings. ' ' 

I  leaned  out  as  far  as  I  could — the  bar  across 
the  window  hindered  me,  but  I  managed  to  touch 
his  outstretched  hand  with  the  tips  of  my  fingers. 

A  spasm  caught  my  throat.  ''Paul,  Paul!"  I 
gasped.  "Oh,  God,  forgive  me!"  A  shrill 
whistle  drowned  my  voice  as  the  train  moved 
slowly  forward. 

He  must  have  seen  the  anguish  in  my  face,  for 
he  cried  anxiously : 

"What?  What  did  you  say?"  Now  he  was 
running  beside  the  train,  which  was  beginning  to 
go  faster. 

I  repeated  my  cry:  "Forgive  me!  Forgive 
me ! ' '  and  stretched  out  my  arms  to  him  from  the 
window. 

He  shook  his  head  to  show  that  he  had  not  under- 
stood.    The  train  was  throbbing  and  hastening. 

He  ran  faster  beside  it.  "What — what  is  it? 
What  did  you  say?"  But  the  train  was  gaining 
speed,  and  he  was  obliged  to  stop.    He  stood  there, 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  277 

erect  and  solitary,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  plat- 
form, following  with  perplexed  and  questioning 
gaze  the  train  that  was  carrying  me  away. 

It  is  thus  always  that  I  see  him  in  my  memory 
— a  solitary  figure,  gazing  at  me  with  perplexed 
and  wondering  eyes. 

Surely  it  is  thus,  thus  wondering  and  perplexed, 
that  he  must  have  looked  in  the  face  of  death  and 
treachery,  on  that  summer  morning  when  he  was 
struck  down  by  the  hand  of  his  friend. 

The  switchback  plunges  downward  in  its  mad 
race  to  the  abyss — the  end  is  near. 

At  Kieff,  as  arranged,  I  meet  Naumoff. 

I  sob  out  my  despair  to  him.  Paul  Kamarow- 
sky  must  die.  I  give  no  reason,  I  explain  noth- 
ing; I  repeat  unceasingly  the  three  words:  ''He 
must  die,"  until  there  seem  to  be  no  other  words 
in  the  world — until  the  universe  seems  to  ring 
with  those  three  words:     ''He  must  die!" 

Naumoff  recoils  from  me,  pale-faced  and  horri- 
fied. Then  I  drive  him  from  me,  crying:  "Go, 
you  are  a  coward.  Let  me  never  see  you 
again ! ' ' 

"But  why  should  he  die?"  cries  Naumoff. 
"What  has  the  poor  man  done  to  you?" 

Ah,  what,  indeed,  has  the  poor  man  done? 

Ramblingly,  incoherently,  I  try  to  explain  to 


278  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

Naumoff;  I  tell  him  of  Tioka  and  his  illness,  of 
my  vow.  .  .  .  He  listens  amazed,  without  com- 
prehending. 

''But  Mura,  Mura!  This  is  delirium,  this  is 
madness.  You  are  ill,  you  are  out  of  your  mind. 
How  can  such  an  insensate  idea  possess  you! 
How  can  you  imagine  that  God  would  demand  such 
an  iniquity?" 

Then  I  rack  my  brain  for  arguments  that  will 
convince  him.  I  invent  all  manner  of  falsehoods ; 
I  repeat  the  tale  of  insults  and  outrages  that  I  have 
endured  at  the  hands  of  Kamarowsky;  I  accuse 
him  of  violence  and  brutality  .  .  .  and  even  as  I 
tell  these  mad  stories  they  seem  to  myself  to  be 
true.  I  am  thrilled  by  my  own  words ;  I  tremble, 
I  weep  convulsively ;  and  Naumoff,  ever  more  pale, 
ever  more  bewildered,  does  not  know  what  to  be- 
lieve. 

Continually,  a  dozen  times  a  day,  blind  to  all 
caution,  reckless  of  all  consequences,  I  send  tele- 
grams to  Prilukoff — the  telegrams  that  afterwards 
were  found,  and  led  to  our  arrest — ''Berta  re- 
fuses." (Prilukoff,  I  know  not  for  what  reason, 
had  nicknamed  Naumoff  "Berta.")  Then  again: 
''Berta  will  do  it."  And  again:  "Berta  irreso- 
lute.   What  am  I  to  do  r ' 

Then  seized  by  sudden  panic:    "Wait!    Do  no 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  279 

harm  to  any  one.     Advise  me.     Help  me.     I  am 
going  mad. ' ' 

Priliikoff  telegraphs  back  his  usual  set  phrase : 
''Leave  it  to  me."  And  he  forthwith  proceeds  to 
send  me  a  number  of  telegrams,  all  of  which  con- 
tain a  series  of  insults  and  taunts  addressed  both 
to  Naumoff  and  to  myself.  He  signs  them  "Paul 
Kamarowsky."  Naumoff  reads  them  in  amaze- 
ment, then  in  anger;  finally  he,  too,  becomes  pos- 
sessed of  the  idea  of  crime,  obsessed  by  the  frenzy 
of  murder. 

How  can  I  tell  the  terrible  story  further?  .  .  . 
The  gust  of  madness  caught  us  in  its  whirlwind, 
dashing  us  round  like  leaves  blown  in  a  storm. 

One  evening — it  was  a  pale,  clear  twilight  at  the 
close  of  August — I  sprang  suddenly  to  my  feet, 
and  winding  a  black  veil  round  my  hair,  I  ran  from 
my  rooms  and  down  the  wide  shallow  flights  of  the 
hotel  staircase.  There  were  large  mirrors  on 
every  landing.  As  I  descended  I  saw  at  every 
turn  a  woman  coming  to  meet  me,  a  tall,  spectral 
creature  with  a  black  veil  tied  round  a  white,  des- 
olate face  .  .  .  her  light,  wild  eyes  filled  me  with 
fear,  and  I  hurried  forward  to  reach  the  hall, 
where  I  heard  voices  and  music. 

Standing  beside  the  piano  in  the  vast  lounge, 
two  young  girls  were  singing;  they  were  English 


280  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

girls,  and  they  sang,  with  shy,  cool  voices,  a  duet 
of  Mendelssohn : 


i44=mu 


Fair  Springtime  bids  the  bluebells  ring  Sweet  chimes  o'er  vale  and  lea 

Some  distance  away,  listening  to  them  with 
tranquil  contentment  on  their  peaceful  faces, 
sat  their  parents — the  father,  a  stern,  stately  old 
man  with  kindly  eyes;  the  mother,  gentle  and 
serene,  wearing  the  white  lace  cap  of  renunciation 
on  her  smooth  gray  hair.  As  I  passed  them  with 
faltering  step  the  mother  turned  and  looked  at  me. 
Wliat  did  she  read  in  my  face  that  wakened  such 
a  look  of  tenderness  and  pity  in  hers?  .  .  .  She 
smiled  at  me,  and  that  smile  seemed  to  stop  my 
heart,  so  guileless  was  it,  so  maternal  and  so  kind. 

For  an  instant  a  wild  thought  possessed  me ;  to 
stop,  to  fall  upon  my  knees  before  this  gentle,  un- 
known woman  and  implore  her  help. 

What  if  I  cried  out  to  her:  ''Help  me,  have 
pity  upon  me !  I  am  an  unhappy  creature  whom 
the  Fates  pursue.  ...  I  am  distraught,  I  am  de- 
mented— to-morrow  I  shall  have  murder  on  my 
soul.  Keep  me  near  you  .  .  .  save  me!  Unless 
you  help  me  I  am  lost.  ..." 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA 


281 


But  the  Furies  that  pursued  me  laughed  aloud 
and  lashed  me  forward. 

And  now  Nicolas  Naumoff,  who  had  noticed  my 
flight,  came  running  down  the  staircase  to  follow 
me.  .  .  . 

I  crossed  the  hall  rapidly  and  went  out  into  the 
dusk. 


-^ — Ps — ^ 


u^^^^^ 


3=t 


m 


T^ 


3^ 


fTrn 


All    in  this  mer-ry  morn  of  Spring,  Come  out  and  dance  with  me. 


XLI 

Through  the  twilight  streets  I  hastened,  and 
Naumoff  followed,  calling  me  by  my  name ;  but  I 
did  not  answer  him.  Through  the  long  Eoad  of 
the  Cross  I  hurried  silently,  and  out  through  the 
Golden  Gate,  and  on,  down  dusty  solitary  streets, 
past  the  Church  of  All  Saints,  until  at  last  I  stood 
before  the  cemetery  where  my  mother  is  laid  to 
rest. 

''Where  are  we  going?"  asked  Naumoff. 
' '  Why  have  you  come  here  ? ' ' 

But  without  answering  him  I  threw  a  ruble  to 
the  gatekeeper  and  entered  the  silent  pathways  of 
the  churchyard. 

The  sky  was  still  light  in  the  west,  but  the  paths 
were  gloomy  in  the  shadow  of  willow  and  cypress 
trees.  Hastening  on  between  the  double  rows  of 
flower-decked  graves,  and  the  monuments  that 
gleamed  whitely  in  the  twilight,  I  reached  my 
mother's  tomb.  I  knelt  and  kissed  the  great 
marble  cross  that  stands  so  heavily  above  her  frail 
brow.  And  the  thought  of  her  lying  there,  so  deso- 
late and  alone,  abandoned  to  the  rains  and  the 

282 


MAKIE  TARNOWSI^  283 

winds  and  the  darkness  of  long  dreadful  nights, 
struck  terror  to  my  heart. 

"Speak  to  me,  mother,"  I  whispered  to  her. 
''Tell  me  what  I  am  to  do.  You  who  know  all 
— all  about  the  vow  and  little  Tioka,  and  the  ter- 
rible things  that  are  in  my  life — tell  me,  mother, 
must  Paul  Kamarowsky  die?" 

My  mother  did  not  answer. 

' '  Tell  me,  tell  me,  mother !  Is  he  to  die  ? "  My 
mother  was  silent.  But  the  evening  breeze  passed 
over  the  delicate  flowers,  the  lilies  and  campanulas 
which  cover  her  grave ;  and  they  all  nodded  their 
heads,  saying:    "Yes,  yes,  yes." 

"Did  you  see!"  I  whispered  to  Naumoff. 

But  he  only  looked  at  me  with  bewildered  eyes. 
And  I  drew  him  away.  "We  must  go  quickly," 
I  said. 

Now  it  was  growing  dark.  I  hastened  along  the 
winding  narrow  pathways  until  in  a  deserted  cor- 
ner I  found  what  I  was  seeking :  a  neglected  grave 
marked  by  a  gray  stone  bearing  a  name  and  a  date. 

As  I  gazed  at  that  mound  of  earth,  on  which  a 
long-since  withered  wreath  spoke  of  forgetfulness, 
a  wave  of  desolation  swept  over  my  heart.  How 
sad  and  empty  and  useless  was  everything!  Life 
and  hope  and  love  and  desire — all  empty,  all  un- 
availing. .  .  . 


284  MAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

''Who  is  buried  liere?"  asked  Naumoff  under 
his  breath.  He  bent  forward  and  read  the  name 
aloud:    "Vladimir  Stahl." 

Something  stirred.  Perhaps  it  was  only  the  dry 
leaves  of  the  withered  wreath,  but  I  was  afraid 
— afraid  that  I  should  see  Stahl  suddenly  move 
and  rise  up,  covered  with  mold,  to  answer  to  his 
name. 

''Vladimir  Stahl  ..."  whispered  Naumoff 
again,  raising  his  haggard  boyish  face  and  gazing 
at  me, ' '  Mura,  Mura,  I  see  you  encompassed  by  the 
dead." 

Doubtless  he  meant  the  tombs  which  spread 
around  me  in  a  livid  semicircle ;  but  to  me  it  seemed 
that  he  could  discern  standing  behind  me  all  my 
dead — my  mother  and  Stahl,  and  Bozevsky  and 
little  Peter.  ...  I  uttered  a  scream  as  I  looked 
fearfully  behind  me. 

"Why  do  you  scream!"  gasped  Naumoff;  and 
he  also  turned  and  looked  round.  Then  he  pointed 
to  the  grave  in  front  of  us.  "Who  was  this?" 
he  asked  in  a  low  voice.  "Did  he  love  you?" 
His  eyes  flickered  strangely.  There  was  horror 
and  lust  and  frenzy  in  the  gaze  he  fixed  upon 
me. 

I  was  silent. 

"Did  he  love  you?    Did  he  love  you?"    He 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  285 

pressed  closer  to  me,  with  parted  lips  and  quicken- 
ing breath. 

Then  I  bent  towards  him,  and  a  thrill  such  as  I 
have  never  felt  passed  through  me.  ' '  Swear — on 
the  dead — that  you  will  kill  that  man. ' ' 

* '  I  swear  it, ' '  he  gasped.  ' '  Terrible  woman  that 
you  are,  I  swear  it.'* 

''Go,"  I  whispered.  "Go  .  .  .  at  once."  But 
he  sprang  towards  me  and  fastened  his  lips  upon 
mine. 

Amid  all  the  horrors  that  haunt  my  memory, 
all  the  spectral  visions  which  drift  darkly  through 
the  labyrinth  of  my  life,  that  frenzied  embrace 
among  the  tombs  in  the  crepuscular  cemetery,  still 
rises  before  me — a  ghost  of  darkness  and  of  shame. 

He  turned  and  left  me.  I  heard  his  footsteps 
running  along  the  gravel  path,  I  saw  his  tall 
shadowy  figure  vanish  in  the  gloom.  .  .  .  He  was 
gone. 

I  was  alone  in  the  nocturnal  churchyard,  alone 
by  Stahl's  desolate  grave. 

''Nicolas  Naumoff!"  I  cried.  But  no  one  an- 
swered me,  and  fear  ran  into  my  heart  with  thud- 
ding steps. 

I  hurried  forward,  down  the  narrow  path 
bordered  with  tombs  and  turned  to  the  right, 
down  another  wider  avenue  among  other  endless 


286  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

rows  of  the  dead.  .  .  .  Where  was  I?  In  which 
direction  lay  the  gate?  ...  I  turned  and  ran 
back.  I  must  find  Stahl's  grave  again,  and  then 
go  to  the  left  through  the  unconsecrated  burial- 
ground  of  those  who  had  died  by  their  own  hand. 
.  .  .  With  shuddering  breath  I  stumbled  forward, 
but  nowhere  could  I  find  the  dreary  field  of  the 
unshriven  dead.  Tall  sepulchers  and  mausoleums 
loomed  dimly  on  either  side  of  me,  limitless  rows 
of  tombstones  and  statues  .  .  .  but  Stahl's  low, 
dreary  mound  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Stay — 
behind  the  willows  on  the  right,  was  that  not  the 
white  cross  standing  on  my  mother's  grave?  .  .  . 
To  reach  it  quickly  I  left  the  pathway  and  ran 
diagonally  across  the  burial  ground  trampling  the 
graves  in  my  haste  to  reach  that  large  cross  shim- 
mering in  the  gloom.  .  .  .  No,  it  was  not  my 
mother's  grave.  But  further  on,  and  further, 
other  crosses  glimmered  and  beckoned — and  I  ran 
on,  crazed  and  terror-stricken,  stumbling  over 
mounds  and  hiUocks,  tripping  in  iron  railings, 
trampling  over  flowers  and  wreaths  .  .  .  until  I 
fell  in  the  darkness  and  lay  unconscious  and  silent 
amid  the  silent  and  unconscious  dead. 

A  breath   of   soft  morning  air  awoke  me.     I 
opened  my  eyes.    Elise  was  bending  over  me  with 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  287 

pale  and  anxious  face.     The  room — my  bedroom 
—whirled  and  swam  before  my  dizzy  sight. 
^'Elise!"  .  .  . 

Elise  Perrier  clasped  her  hands.  ''Thank 
God!"  she  murmured.  "I  feared  you  would 
never  wake  again."  Her  face  worked  strangely, 
and  she  burst  into  tears. 

' '  Elise — what  has  happened  ?  What  is  to-day  1 ' ' 
Before  she  could  answer,  another  question  sprang 
to  my  lips:     ''Wliere  is  Naumotf?" 

''He  has  left,  my  lady,"  whispered  Elise  in 
awestruck  tones. 

"Left?"  A  long  silence  held  us.  "Left? 
Where  has  he  gone '? ' ' 

Elise  looked  down  at  me  with  blanched  and 
quivering  countenance. 

"To  Venice,"  she  said  in  low  tones. 
I  started  up.  ' '  To  Venice  I"  To  Venice !  My 
memory  darted  to  and  fro  like  a  child  playing  hide 
and  seek.  "Elise!  Elise!  Elise!"  I  stretched 
out  my  hands  like  one  sinking  and  drowning  in  the 
darkness.  Elise  wept.  I  watched  the  strange 
faces  that  Elise  always  made  when  she  wept: 
funny,  pitiful  grimaces  with  puckered  brow  and 
chin. 

' '  To  Venice. ' '  My  memory  flickers  like  a  feeble 
light,  then  blazes  into  sudden  flames  that  sear  my 


288  ^lARIE  TARNOWSKA 

soul  with  fire.  ' '  Elise !  He  must  be  stopped.  He 
must  not  reach  Venice!  Elise,  stop  him,  stop 
him — ! ' ' 

* '  It  is  impossible,  my  lady. ' ' 

Yes,  it  is  impossible. 

(By  this  time  the  train  which  is  carrying  Nau- 
moff  on  his  mission  of  death  has  passed  Warsaw 
and  is  hastening  towards  Briinn;  hastening,  ever 
hastening  through  the  dawning  hours  and  the 
noonday  sunshine,  hastening  on  into  the  twilight 
— and  at  dusk  it  rumbles  and  pants  into  the  station 
at  Vienna.) 

I  fall  fainting  back  upon  my  pillows,  and  all 
through  the  day  and  the  night  I  dream  that  I  am 
speeding  after  the  rushing  train,  catching  up  with 
it  and  losing  it  again,  sweeping  through  the  air, 
tearing  along  the  unending  rails,  reaching  it  at 
last,  and  being  struck  down  and  crushed  under  its 
rolling  wheels. 

Day  dawns  once  more. 

**  Elise,  Elise,  bring  Naumoff  back.  Telegraph 
to  him.  Elise,  for  heaven's  sake,  bring  him 
back!" 

*'It  is  hopeless,  my  lady." 

Yes,  it  is  hopeless. 


MARIE  TARNOWSI^^  289 

(At  this  hour  the  train  is  hurrying  from  Botzen 
to  Verona,  from  Verona  to  Vicenza,  from  Vicenza 
to  Padua.) 

Night  falls  on  my  despair. 

''Elise,  Elisel  Where  are  you?  What  is  the 
timer' 

**It  is  nearly  dawn,  my  lady." 

'^Elise,  what  day  is  this?" 

**It  is  the  third  day  of  September." 

The  third  day  of  September! 

*'Elise,"  I  scream  suddenly,  ''Elise!  Tele- 
graph to  Kamarowsky.  Warn  him.  .  .  .  Quickly, 
oh,  quickly !     Why,  why  did  we  not  do  so  before  ? ' ' 

''Hush,  my  lady,  hush!  You  were  delirious; 
you  could  only  rave  and  weep. ' ' 

''Elise,  Elise,  telegraph  to  Kamarowsky.  .  .  ." 

"It  is  too  late,  my  lady." 

Yes,  it  is  too  late. 

{At  this  very  hour  of  dawn  the  train  has  reached 
Venice.  Nicolas  Naumoff  is  hastening  from  the 
Riva  degli  Schiavoni,  across  the  empty  piazza 
and  the  deserted  streets.  He  hails  a  gondola. 
"Campo  Santa  Maria  del  Giglio!" 

And  the  gondola,  with  soft  plash  of  oar,  glides 
slowly  towards  the  doomed  sleeper. 


290  MAEIE  TAKNOWSKA 

What  dreams  may  the  angel  of  rest  have  sent  to 
him  for  the  last  time?  Perhaps  the  tender  vision 
of  little  Grania  has  gladdened  him,  while  silent  and 
inexorable  in  the  closed  gondola  the  youth  with  the 
golden  eyes  steals  towards  him  through  the  mazes 
of  the  clear  canals. 

'^ Santa  Maria  del  Giglio." 

Nicolas  Naumoff  springs  from  the  gondola, 
crosses  the  empty  Campo  and  reaches  the  house. 
He  ascends  the  steps  quickly,  knocks,  enters — and 
closes  the  door  behind  him.) 

Yes,  it  is  too  late. 

I  hear  myself  shrieking  with  laughter  as  I  fall 
back  on  my  pillows.  Soon  I  am  surrounded  by 
strangers  who  hold  me  down,  who  thrast  opiates 
between  my  lips,  who  lay  soothing  hands  and  cool- 
ing compresses  on  my  brow.  Then  I  know  noth- 
ing more. 

Elise  Perrier's  terrified  face  surges  out  of  the 
darkness:  she  is  speaking  quickly,  she  is  bending 
over  me,  imploring  and  urging.  .  .  .  What  does 
she  say?  She  weeps  despairingly,  and  ever 
through  her  tears  she  speaks,  urging  and  implor- 
ing. 

Finally,  in  her  thin  arms,  she  drags  me  from  my 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  291 

bed;  slie  dresses  me;  she  wraps  a  cloak  about  me, 
and  hurries  backwards  and  forwards  with  travel- 
ing-bags and  satchels.  Now  we  are  in  a  carriage 
' — no,  we  are  in  a  train.  Elise  Perrier  sits  oppo- 
site me,  with  ashen  face  and  her  hands  in  gray 
cotton  gloves  tightly  folded.  Her  lips  move.  She 
is  praying. 

Suddenly  I  struggle  to  my  feet:    ''Paul!  .  .  .'* 

As  I  scream  the  name  Elise  springs  upon  me, 
covering  my  mouth  with  her  cotton  glove,  press- 
ing my  head  to  her  breast.  * '  Silence !  hush,  hush, 
for  the  love  of  heaven!  They  will  hear  you. 
Hush!" 

*'Is  he  dead,  Elise,  is  he  dead?" 

''No,  no,  he  is  not  dead,"  gasps  Elise  in  a  tone- 
less whisper,  ''he  is  not  dead.  We  are  going  to 
him.  He  is  wounded  ...  he  has  been  telegraph- 
ing to  you  for  three  days,  begging  you  to  come. 
And  you  would  not  move,  you  would  not  under- 
stand. ..."    Elise  is  crying  again. 

But  perfect  peace  has  descended  into  my  soul. 
Paul  is  not  dead.  He  lives!  he  lives!  Nothing 
else  matters  but  this — he  lives. 

The  train  still  rushes  along,  beating  rhythmic 
time  to  many  tunes  that  are  in  my  head;  I  gaze 
out  of  the  window,  at  the  whirling  landscape  that 
swings  past  like  a  giant  chess-board,  at  the  tele- 


292  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

graph  wires  that  dip,  and  then  ascend  slowly  and 
dip  again.  Hours  pass  or  days  pass.  .  .  .  And 
the  train  stops. 

Elise  is  hurriedly  collecting  cloaks  and  satchels. 

*' Where  are  we,  Elise?    Are  we  in  Venice?" 

' '  Not  yet ;  not  yet.     We  are  in  Vienna. ' ' 

As  I  step  from  the  train,  two  men  whom  I  do 
not  know  approach  me.  One  of  them  asks  me  if 
I  am  the  Countess  Tarnowska.  He  has  not  taken 
his  hat  off,  and  I  do  not  deign  to  reply. 

As  I  am  about  to  pass  him  he  lays  his  hand  on 
my  arm.  The  other  man  also  comes  forward,  and, 
one  on  each  side,  they  conduct  me  along  the  plat- 
form. I  notice  many  people  stopping  to  look  at 
me. 

Nothing  seems  to  matter.  I  do  not  remember 
why  we  are  in  Vienna,  nor  whither  we  are  bound. 
I  notice  that  it  is  a  bright,  hot  day,  and  I  feel  that 
I  am  walking  in  a  dream.  ...  I  find  myself  think- 
ing of  Vassili;  I  wish  he  would  come,  and  send 
these  men  away  and  take  me  home.  I  shall  be 
glad  when  I  am  at  home  with  Vassili  and  the  chil- 
dren and  Aunt  Sonia.  .  .  .  Safely  at  home ! 

Then  I  remember — I  have  no  home.  I  am  a  for- 
saken, demented  creature  whom  Vassili  cares  for 
no  longer.  But  where  am  I  going?  I  am  going 
to  Paul  Kamarowsky,  who  lives  and  loves  me !  .  .  . 


m 


IN    THE   PRISON    CELL 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  293 

Again  I  weep  with  joy  and  thankfulness  at  the 
thought  that  Kamarowsky  lives. 

Now  I  am  in  a  carriage  driving  through  the 
streets  of  Vienna;  and  the  two  strange  men  are 
still  with  me.  They  are  taking  me  to  a  hotel. 
We  arrive.  I  pass  through  a  large  doorway  and 
along  some  passages.  Then  I  notice  that  it  is  not 
a  hotel.  It  is  a  vast,  bare  room  with  wooden 
benches  round  the  wall.  Some  men  in  uniform 
stand  at  the  door,  and  I  notice  that  they  do  not 
salute  me  when  I  enter. 

Neither  does  an  elderly  man  who  is  sitting  at 
the  desk  rise  or  come  to  meet  me.  He  looks  at 
me  steadily  and  asks  me  many  questions;  but  I 
pay  no  heed  to  him.  The  windows  are  open ;  I  can 
hear  the  sound  of  a  piano  very  far  away;  some- 
body is  practising  a  romance  by  Chaminade  that  I 
used  to  play  at  Otrada.  .  .  .  How  sad  a  piano 
sounds  w^hen  played  by  an  unseen  hand  in  the 
silence  of  a  sunlit  street ! 

The  man  at  the  desk  speaks  in  German  to  the 
uniformed  men;  they  take  my  golden  wristbag 
from  me,  and  conduct  me  out  of  the  bare  room 
down  a  long  passage.  As  I  go  slowly  forward 
between  the  two  men  I  notice  that  from  the  far 
end  of  the  passage  a  group  of  people  are  coming 
towards  us.    In  the  center  of  the  group  walks  a 


294  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

man,  handcuffed  and  wearing  his  hat  crookedly  at 
the  back  of  his  head,  as  if  placed  there  by  some 
other  hand  than  his  own.    It  is  Prilukoff! 

He  sees  me.  A  wave  of  livid  pallor  overspreads 
his  face.  Then  he  bends  forward  towards  me  and 
makes  a  movement  with  his  lips,  pressing  them 
tightly  together  and  shaking  his  head;  he  is  try- 
ing to  make  me  understand  something.  As  they 
notice  this  the  men  at  my  side  grasp  my  arm  and 
make  me  turn  quickly  down  another  corridor.  But 
I  hear  Prilukoff 's  voice  shouting  after  me.  He 
utters  a  Russian  word:     ''Molci!"     (Be  silent). 

The  men  thrust  me  rudely  into  an  empty  cell. 
I  sit  down  on  a  bench  fixed  in  a  corner  under  the 
small,  barred  window  and  lean  my  head  against 
the  wall.  I  feel  neither  unhappy  nor  afraid ;  only 
weary,  unspeakably  weary;  and  almost  at  once  I 
fall  into  a  deep,  dreamless  sleep.  Never  since  I 
was  a  child  at  Otrada  have  I  known  such  perfect 
rest — such  utter  oblivion  poured  upon  such  limit- 
less weariness. 

Suddenly  my  door  is  opened  abruptly  and  one 
of  the  men  enters;  he  takes  me  by  the  arm,  and 
conducts  me  back  to  the  large,  bare  room,  where 
the  elderly  official  still  sits  at  his  desk.  And 
there,  standing  before  him,  I  see  Elise.  She  is 
weeping  bitterly.    I  see  her  making  those  comical 


MARIE  TARNOWSIvA  295 

grimaces  wliich  always  accompany  her  tears,  as  in 
Italy  cheerful  music  accompanies  a  child's  funeral. 
My  mind — like  a  frightened  bat  that  has  flown  into 
a  room  and  darts  hither  and  thither — flutters  and 
plunges  wildly  through  all  my  past  life.  I  think 
of  my  mother,  of  little  Peter,  and  of  Bozevsky ;  I 
remember  a  pink  dress  I  once  wore  here  in  Vienna, 
at  a  reception  of  the  Russian  Embassy.  ...  I 
think  of  little  Tioka  and  his  days  for  saying 
''No."  .  .  .  How  far,  how  far  away  it  all  is! 
"What  a  gulf  of  guilt  and  sorrow  have  my  tottering 
footsteps  traversed  since  then.  .  .  .  But  now — 
now  I  will  climb  tremblingly,  devoutly,  the  steep 
road  that  leads  back  to  safety;  hunbled  to  my 
knees  I  will  pour  out  my  thanks.  For  Paul  Kama- 
rowsky  is  saved ;  he  lives  and  will  recover ! 

The  man  at  my  side  is  dragging  me  roughly 
forward.  The  elderly  official  at  the  desk  has  beck- 
oned to  me,  and  as  I  stand  before  him  in  a  line 
with  Elise  he  reads  aloud  from  a  sheet  of  foolscap. 
Suddenly  I  hear  the  words:  ''Complicity  in  the 
murder  of  Count  Paul  Kamarowsky.  ..." 

The  murder?     The  murder! 

Two  of  the  uniformed  men  hold  my  arms. 

"But,"  I  try  to  say,  with  chattering  teeth, 
"Count  Kamarowsky  lives  ...  he  will  recover." 

The  man  replies,  "Count  Kamarowsky  is  dead." 


296  MARIE  TARNOWSKA 

I  laugh  out  loud.  The  car  on  the  switchback 
rushes,  whirls,  plunges — falls  with  me  to  destruc- 
tion. 


XLII 

Like  a  dream  within  a  dream. — PoE. 

It  was  in  the  prison  infirmary  that  I  first  heard 
the  details  of  what  had  passed  in  the  Villa  Santa 
Maria  del  Giglio,  on  that  fatal  morning  of  August 
the  3rd.  As  the  nursing  sister  sat  beside  me, 
renewing  from  time  to  time  the  cold  bandages 
placed  on  my  throbbing  forehead,  she  told  me  in 
low  tones  the  mournful  and  tragic  story.  I  lis- 
tened as  if  I  were  listening  in  a  dream  to  the  story 
of  a  dream. 

''When  (she  said)  at  early  morning  the  Vene- 
tian servant-girl  heard  a  knock  at  the  door  she 
went  to  open  it,  and  a  pale  youth  stepped  quickly 
across  the  threshold.  He  asked  for  Count  Kama- 
rowsky,  and  bade  the  girl  tell  him  that  Nicolas 
Naumoff,  of  Orel,  had  arrived  and  desired  to  see 
him.  The  girl  went  to  her  master's  door  and 
knocked.  He  was  awake  and  had  risen.  On  hear- 
ing her  message,  he  hurried  out  to  meet  his  friend, 
for  he  loved  him  like  a  brother — " 

297 


298  IvIAEIE  TARNOWSKA 

C'Ah,  sister,  I  know,  I  know!  He  loved  him 
like  a  brother!") 

''When  he  saw  Naumoff  come  in  he  went  for- 
ward to  meet  him  with  open  arms.  The  yonng 
man  raised  his  hand  and  fired  five  shots  point  blank 
into  his  body.  The  Count  fell  to  the  ground ;  but 
even  then  he  stretched  out  his  arms  to  the  young 
man  and  said:  'My  friend,  why  have  you  done 
this  to  me?  In  what  way  have  I  ever  harmed 
you?'  The  young  man,  with  a  cry  as  if  he  had 
awakened  from  a  dream,  flung  himself  on  the 
ground  at  his  feet.  Then  the  wounded  man 
showed  him  the  balcony  from  which  he  might 
escape,  and  with  fast-ebbing  breath  forgave  him 
and  bade  him  farewell. ' ' 

("Oh,  sister,  sister,  with  fast-ebbing  breath  he 
forgave  him  and  bade  him  farewell !") 
i  '*He  was  carried  to  the  hospital,  and  the  doctors 
wanted  to  give  him  chloroform  while  they  probed 
the  gaping,  deep-seated  wounds ;  but  he  would  not 
take  it.  '  Do  what  you  have  to  do  without  sending 
me  to  sleep,'  he  said.  'I  shall  have  plenty  of  time 
to  sleep — afterwards.'  The  doctors  groped  for 
the  bullets  in  the  lacerated  flesh,  and  stitched  up 
the  five,  deep-seated  wounds.  .  .  .  When  it  was 
over  he  asked  for  you." 

C' Sister,  sister,  he  asked  for  me!") 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  299 

*'He  begged  that  you  might  be  summoned 
quickly,  and  many  telegrams  were  sent,  but  you 
neither  came  nor  replied." 

C'l  neither  came  nor  replied!") 

''On  the  third  day  he  was  better.  He  spoke 
to  those  around  him,  and  again  he  asked  for  you, 
and  hoped  that  you  would  come.  In  the  hospital 
he  was  in  the  hands  of  an  old  and  very  famous 
surgeon;  but  alas!  as  Fate  would  have  it — " 

(''What?  what?    As  Fate  would  have  it—?") 

"As  Fate  would  have  it,  the  mind  of  this  old 
and  celebrated  surgeon  suddenly  gave  way.  None 
knew  that  anything  was  amiss,  as  he  stood  that 
day  at  the  bedside  of  the  sufferer  whom  his  skill 
had  saved.  He  spoke  to  his  assistants  in  the  same 
calm,  authoritative  voice  as  usual,  but  he  ordered 
that  the  stitches  should  he  taken  out  of  the  five 
wounds  that  were  just  beginning  to  heal.  Those 
around  him  recoiled  in  amazement.  They  were 
thunderstruck.  But  he  repeated  the  disastrous 
order  in  the  voice  of  one  who  is  accustomed  to 
command  and  to  save  lives  that  are  in  peril. 
Then—" 

( ' '  What  then  ?    What  then  ? " ) 

"Then  the  assistants,  doubting  their  own  wis- 
dom, but  not  that  of  the  man  who  had  been  their 
master,  obeyed,  and  reopened  the  five  deep-seated 


300  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

wounds  which  were  just  beginning  to  heal.  And 
again,  as  Fate  would  have  it — " 

(Ah,  Fate!  The  ghoul,  the  vampire  Fate! 
She  who  has  pursued  me  since  my  birth !  She  who 
has  caught  us  and  crushed  us  all  in  her  torturing 
grip,  splintering  us  like  frail  glass  bubbles  in  her 
hand!  Now  she  had  entered  the  sick  room  of 
Paul  Kamarowsky,  had  brooded  over  his  bedside, 
and  in  fiendish  pleasantry  had  scourged  the  old 
surgeon's  brain  with  madness,  whipping  it  to 
frenzy  as  a  child  whips  a  top,  guiding  his  hand  to 
tear  the  injured  body  and  reopen  the  fast-healing 
wounds.) 

''As  Fate  would  have  it,  the  old  surgeon  gave 
other  and  still  more  dreadful  orders.  Ah,  holy 
Virgin!  how  shall  the  "horror  be  told?  .  .  .  When 
the  bewildered  assistants,  aghast  at  what  they  had 
done,  laid  the  sufferer  back  on  his  pillows,  the  slay- 
ing had  been  accomplished. ' ' 

("The  slaying  had  "been  accomplished!") 

"With  his  last  breath  he  called  upon  your 
name. ' ' 

("With  his  last  breath  he  called  upon  my 
name!") 


X 

-0 
Z 


?3 
> 


XLIII 

E  son  quasi  a  Festremo. 
Luce  degli  anni  tniei,  dove  se'gita? 

Carducci. 

If  I  were  to  be  asked  to  name  the  darkest  hour 
of  my  dark  life,  well  do  I  know  which  of  all  my 
gloomy  memories  would  raise  its  spectral  face. 

Not  the  terror-haunted  hours  of  madness  and 
crime,  not  the  anguish-stricken  nights  passed  at 
the  bedside  of  those  I  loved,  not  my  own  life- 
struggles  with  the  monsters  of  disease  and  de- 
mentia, tearing  at  the  very  roots  of  my  life — no, 
the  darkest  hour  of  my  life  was  that  glorious  sum- 
mer morning  in  Venice,  when  I  was  brought  from 
the  prison  of  La  Giudecca  to  attend  my  trial  at  the 
Criminal  Court.  The  sun  flung  a  sparkling  net  of 
diamonds  athwart  the  blue  waters  of  the  lagoon, 
and  the  gondola  bore  me  with  peaceful  splash 
of  oar  over  the  dancing  waters.  The  gondolier 
steadied  the  swaying  skiff  at  the  wave-kissed  steps, 
and  I  rose,  drawing  my  veil  about  me,  to  disem- 
bark. 

As  I  placed  my  foot  on  the  steps — ^how  often  be- 

301 


302  MAEIE  TAENOWSKA 

fore,  in  happier  days,  had  I  thus  stepped  from  my 
gondola,  greeted  and  smiled  upon  by  the  kindly 
Venetian  idlers ! — ^I  lifted  my  eyes.  A  crowd  had 
assembled  at  the  top  of  the  steps  and  thronged  the 
piazza.  They  stood  in  serried  ranks,  menacing 
and  silent,  leaving  a  narrow  pathway  for  me  to 
pass.  I  faltered  and  would  have  stepped  back,  but 
the  carabinieri  at  my  side  held  my  arms  and  im- 
pelled me  forward.  At  that  moment  some  one  in 
the  crowd — a  woman — laughed.  As  if  that  sound 
had  shattered  the  spell  that  held  them  mute,  the 
mob  broke  into  a  tumult  of  noise,  a  storm  of  hisses 
and  cries,  shrieks  and  jeers,  hootings  and  maledic- 
tions, while,  rising  above  it  and  more  cruel  than 
all,  was  the  laughter,  the  strident,  mocking  laugh- 
ter that  accompanied  my  every  step  and  gesture. 

And  there,  tall  and  motionless  in  the  midst  of 
the  laughing,  hissing,  shrieking  mob,  stood  my 
father,  his  white  hair  stirring  in  the  breeze,  his 
eyes — the  proud  blue  O'Eourke  eyes — fixed  upon 
me. 

Oh,  father,  father  whose  heart  I  have  broken, 
in  that  hour  I  paid  the  wages  of  my  sin.  Not  these 
dark  years  of  imprisonment,  not  the  mantle  of 
ignominy  that  clothes  me  with  eternal  defilement, 
not  the  gloomy  solitude  in  which  I  see  the  gradual 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  303 

fading  of  my  youth,  not  the  horror  of  the  past,  nor 
the  hopelessness  of  the  future — not  these  are  the 
deadliest  of  my  punishments ;  but  the  memory  of 
your  white  hair  in  the  crowd  that  hissed  its  hatred, 
and  laughed  its  contempt  of  your  daughter,  and 
the  jeers  that  greeted  you,  and  the  rude  hands  that 
jostled  you  when  you  stepped  forward  and  laid 
your  hand  in  blessing  on  my  degraded  head. 


Marie  Tamowska  is  silent.    Her  story  is  told. 


EPILOGUE 

The  verdant  landscape  of  Central  Italy  swings 
past  the  train  that  carries  me  homeward.  The 
looped  vines — like  slim  green  dancers  holding 
hands — speed  backwards  as  we  pass.  Far  behind 
me  lies  the  white  prison  of  Trani ;  and  the  memory 
of  Marie  Tarnowska  and  of  her  sins  and  woes 
drifts  away  from  me,  like  some  shipwrecked 
barque,  storm-tossed  and  sinking,  that  I  have 
gazed  upon,  powerless  to  help. 

The  long  summer  day  is  drawing  to  its  close; 
above  the  Apennines  where  the  sky  is  lightest  the 
new  moon  floats  like  a  little  boat  of  amber  on  an 
opal  sea.  Like  a  fragment  of  a  dream  the  song 
returns  to  my  memory,  the  childish  song  of  which 
I  have  never  heard  and  shall  never  hear  more  than 
the  first  two  lines: 

When  little  children  sleep,  the  Virgin  Mary 
Steps  with  white  feet  upon  the  crescent  moon  .  .  . 

As  the  train  carries  me  homeward,  back  to  the 
joys  of  life  and  love  and  freedom,  back  to  the 
welcome  of  friends  and  the  safety  of  a  sheltered 

304 


MARIE  TARNOWSKA  305 

hearth,  I  think  once  more  of  her  whom  I  have  left 
in  the  gloom  of  her  prison  cell. 

Soon,  very  soon,  the  hour  of  her  release  will 
strike,  and  the  iron  doors  that  have  guarded  her 
will  open  wide  to  let  her  pass. 

What  then,  what  then,  Marie  Tarnowska? 

Who  will  await  you  at  the  prison  gate  ?  Surely 
Grief,  Scorn,  and  Hatred  will  be  there.  But  by 
your  side  I  seem  to  see  a  guardian  spirit,  shielding 
your  drooping  head  with  outstretched  wings.  It 
is  the  sister  of  lost  Innocence — Repentance ;  and  in 
her  wake  comes  the  blind  singer,  Hope. 


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